


with great power

by MissDinahDarling



Series: mortality's a bitch [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aged-Up Character(s), Agender Character, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Badass Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Badass Tweek Tweak, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Conflict Resolution, Craig Tucker and Tweek Tweak in Love, Drama & Romance, Eric Cartman Being Eric Cartman, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Genderfluid Character, Getting Back Together, Immortal Kenny McCormick, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious, POV Alternating, Past Drug Addiction, Peruvian Craig Tucker, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, Post-Break Up, Racist Cops, Scarred Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Slurs, South Park: The Fractured But Whole, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26107825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDinahDarling/pseuds/MissDinahDarling
Summary: Tweek breaks up with Craig, which is fine, just fine,greateven, fuckingsuperb, ‘cause it’s not like Craig spends every moment thinking about Tweek, wondering if he’s okay, hoping he’s staying clean, daydreaming about how hot he looks when he’s full of righteous fury… nope,definitelynot.That being said, if Kenny – sorry,Mysterion– tries to fucking lecture him one more time about his behaviour, Craig’s gonna have to remind the dick about his own failing relationship.Like yeah sure, he might’ve pissed Tweek off – but at least he never threw ashurikenin his eye.
Relationships: Bebe Stevens & Craig Tucker, Bebe Stevens & Heidi Turner, Clyde Donovan/Bebe Stevens, Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak, Eric Cartman & Kenny McCormick, Eric Cartman & Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Henrietta Biggle/Heidi Turner, Kenny McCormick/Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger, Mysterion/Professor Chaos (South Park), Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger, Super Craig/Wonder Tweek (South Park), Token Black & Tweek Tweak, Token Black/Nichole Daniels
Series: mortality's a bitch [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895596
Comments: 56
Kudos: 107





	1. Ghost Reconciler

**Author's Note:**

> A Recipe for Disaster: take the basic outline of _The Fractured But Whole_ , sprinkle in some drama from _Good Times with Weapons_ , add a dash of romance, tension and pining, simmer for three weeks and then top it off with some teenage angst.
> 
>  _Voilà_!
> 
> You have a self-indulgent mess of a story which has grown far larger than it has any business being.

To put it simply, Bebe is _pissed_.

“What the hell did you do?” she demands, holding up Craig’s tattered hoodie with a horrified expression. He doesn’t get why she’s so fucking irritated, ‘cause she never liked his costume anyways. If anything, Craig’s pretty much done her a goddamn favour.

He shrugs and gestures to the frost which lingers to the exposed threads and gaping holes.

“Exes,” he says plainly because it’s true.

And also ‘cause he doesn’t want to get into the whole sorry fucking mess which had been the inevitable showdown between himself and Tweek. Honestly, he should have known not to go up against his Elementalist ex-boyfriend alone, but his sense of self-preservation is practically non-existent at this point. He had just accidentally crossed paths with Tweek and instead of leaving shit alone, he had chosen to run head-first into trouble. He doesn’t understand how he could possibly be blamed though, considering how pretty Tweek is when coated in ice; but more than that, Craig really needed his laptop back and still does. Fuck, they _had_ to break up the month before his midterm assignment’s due, didn’t they?

Christ, the audacious asshole actually wanted Stripe in return too, like fuck that noise, she’s _his_ baby, no matter what some dumb receipt says.

Fuck. That. Noise.

Bebe sighs, narrowing her eyes at his clenched fists, before throwing him an arched look. Honestly, he kinda gets why Clyde melts in the face of her anger, ‘cause Bebe is like a vengeful goddess when furious, all long blonde curls and icy blue eyes, “I thought you weren’t allowed to fight him alone,” she says, rubbing her thumb across a sharp shard of ice – it’ll take forever to melt, ‘cause that’s Tweek in a nutshell, honestly.

He just… fucking _lingers_.

Craig shrugs as he averts his gaze. “Custody battles are better left without an audience,” he replies, because he sure as shit doesn’t need anyone, least of all _Eric-_ fucking- _Cartman,_ bearing witness to his spats with Tweek.

“And did you win this battle?” Bebe asks wryly, reaching across her workbench to grab a sketchbook and a pencil. She’s been itching to redesign his costume for months and honestly, he doesn’t have the energy to fight her on this anymore. Let her do whatever she wants, just let it be goddamn lightning-proof.

His tongue is still numb, and his eyes haven’t stopped watering since being ruthlessly zapped by his irate ex.

“Barely,” he finally answers, ‘cause that’s true too. He might still have Stripe, but he still doesn’t have his fucking laptop and his skin is fizzing with electricity _and_ his hair still has frost clinging to the tips – the funny thing is, he _knows_ what Tweek is like in a battle. His ex-boyfriend had definitely been holding back, ‘cause if Craig had gone up against Tweek’s full power? Well fuck, he’d be nothing more than a pile of smoking ash, “managed to distract him and knock him down.”

He winces under Bebe’s powerfully withering stare; he doesn’t _think_ she has any powers, but regardless she’s super skilled with a sewing machine and she’s _impossibly_ good at nonverbal guilt trips. Besides, Clyde’s told him enough stories about her impressive glares for Craig to take her seriously.

“You knocked him down?” she asks flatly, flicking her wrist to add some detail to her sketch – her eyes don’t leave his gaze once though, which is pretty fucking unnerving, but totally makes sense, ‘cause it’s _Bebe_. He fleetingly glances down at her pad and purses his lips when she moves it to a sharp angle, obscuring his gaze from her drawing. He sighs and considers her question, ‘cause like, he _may_ have exaggerated slightly.

He didn’t exactly _knock_ Tweek down. It’s physically impossible to knock down an Elemental when you’re just a Brutalist, but fucking hell, did he give it a good go.

“Yeah, but like. Gently,” Craig replies, ducking his head sheepishly as he recalls the fight from earlier, “I just… pushed him. Into a flower shop.” And yeah, now he might be glossing over a few details because technically he _had_ to create distance between himself and the tempestuous hero; the only way to do that had been to kick Tweek through the window of the nearest shop.

He had chosen the flower shop because, inwardly and deep, deep down, he had hoped for a soft landing for his ex-boyfriend; though, that being said, judging by Tweek’s reaction, the landing had been anything but soft.

“Craig,” Bebe says, her head falling back as her hand stills on the page, “you pushed him into a flower shop.”

“Gently,” Craig repeats emphatically.

“And did _Tweek_ see it as gentle?”

“Don’t know, couldn’t really understand him over all the screamed threats.”

She sighs and Craig feels like he’s disappointed her somehow – he wonders if Wendy ever feels like this when dealing with Freedom Pals, but the thought quickly passes when Bebe glances up at him with a concerned expression.

Shit.

That’s even _worse_ than disappointment.

“Sweetie, you are _this_ close,” Bebe says in exasperation, holding up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, “to being declared an anti-hero, or worse: a _villain_. Is that what you want?”

“Thought you liked bad boys.”

“I like _incompetent_ boys, there’s a difference.”

Craig simply rolls his eyes, because well. He’s pretty sure Bebe’s just called Clyde a _himbo_ and he feels like he ought to defend the guy – his best friend isn’t incompetent, not even close, but he’s certainly something else, that’s for damn sure. Mosquito has endless amounts of potential, being a Hybrid; like, having control over insects is pretty impressive, even if it’s also slightly gross. And the dude can… well, not so much _fly_ , but he can hover and zip around in the sky for short bursts, which is better than nothing.

That being said, Clyde is too easily distracted by the benefits of being a superhero that he sometimes forgets the actual grueling work which needs to take place before the rewards are reaped. Craig knows that Clyde could be quite the force to be reckoned with, if only he applied himself, but the dude just doesn’t really want to be. It’s whatever, really.

He doesn’t have the energy to argue this shit out with Bebe though.

“When can you get a new costume ready for me?” he asks instead, shoving his hands into his pockets as he tries to catch a glance at the sketch in Bebe’s lap.

“Depends. You want another dumb hoodie?” she asks, twirling her pencil idly between two fingers.

Craig cants his head and thinks about it; honestly, his hoodie just reminds him of Tweek. They had designed their costumes together – Wonder Tempest and Super Guy, the dynamic duo who could strike fear and hope into the hearts of all who hear their names. By combining the power of storms, fists and, well, fucking love, they could’ve had it all.

 _Could’ve_.

“No,” he says, feeling oddly sombre but he carefully masks it from his tone, “give me something different.”

Bebe blinks at him before she grins widely and emits a tiny squeal of happiness. She jumps from her workbench, sketchbook flying to the ground, and throws her arms around him joyfully. He stiffens immediately, before slowly melting into her touch; it’s been a hot-ass second since someone has last hugged him. Clyde and Jimmy had thrown their arms around his shoulders and Tricia had affectionately punched him in the arm, but no one has really hugged him, since.

Well.

The break-up.

Not even his mom or dad – they just kept their distance and shot mournful looks at him.

“I’m gonna make you look _so_ hot! You won’t regret this!” Bebe says gleefully with a tight squeeze, her words warmer than her touch. Hesitantly, Craig wraps his own arms loosely around her waist and tucks his face into her thick, blonde hair.

He doesn’t reply though.

He thinks he might jinx it if he does.

* * *

Eventually, after being thoroughly interrogated about his favourite colours, materials, and the body-parts he enjoys flaunting most, Bebe gives him permission to escape her house. The Brutalist breathes a sigh of relief as the cold winter air greets him by hitting his face and curling around his body. It’s getting pretty late, so he ducks his head into his scarf and makes his way towards his place; he’s not exactly eager to get back in a rush, ‘cause his dad is _still_ mourning his recent breakup and his mom keeps trying to get him to talk shit out – fuck, his house is like a damn landmine and Tricia is the only halfway decent thing about it.

And Stripe VIII.

But Stripe has yet to master the art of texting, so Tricia will have to take the top spot for now; god, he wonders if he can teach Stripe to text, ‘cause she sure as fuck would be a lot nicer to him than his little sister is being right now…

[Tricia Tucker] sent to [Craig Tucker]: hey fuckface, can karen stay over tonight?

[Craig Tucker] sent to [Tricia Tucker]: Sorry, do I look like dad?

[Tricia Tucker] sent to [Craig Tucker]: oh shit, did you finally figure out that you’re adopted? we would’ve given you back but we lost the receipt

[Craig Tucker] sent to [Tricia Tucker]: I’m adopted?!?!?!

[Tricia Tucker] sent to [Craig Tucker]: omg, shut up. kenny isn’t answering karen’s calls, so he’s probably being a loser in latex tonight like you! and we need you to ask him cause you know m+d never say no to something we both want, so do it!!

[Craig Tucker] sent to [Tricia Tucker]: Don’t make me talk to that asshole, I’m not his fucking friend.

[Tricia Tucker] sent to [Craig Tucker]: urghhhhhh, are you always this gay?

[Craig Tucker] sent to [Tricia Tucker]: This may be shocking to hear, but I’m in a constant state of being ‘this’ gay.

[Tricia Tucker] sent to [Craig Tucker]: whatever! just ask! please!

[Craig Tucker] sent to [Tricia Tucker]: Fine, but you know the adoption card is gonna expire with them at some point. Like, that is a thing you know, right?

[Tricia Tucker] sent to [Craig Tucker]: might as well milk it whilst you can

Craig hums fondly as he reads her last message and can’t help but agree. He wonders how he’ll spin the adoption card this time around, but figures he can use the tried and tested _I kinda like having Karen around – it’s like having another sister which is something I didn’t have before coming here. Oh, I was so lonely in Peru before you came and saved me_ , because Thomas is a sucker for a sob story and Craig knows that, more than anything, his dad just wants his kids to be happy. Laura just has a massive soft spot for sad, sweet kids in trouble which, well.

He ain’t gonna touch, honestly.

Fuck, he _really_ doesn’t want to talk to Kenny right now.

Craig frowns as he opens up the last text he sent to the guy; they used to talk often, but since shit went down, it’s been nothing but radio silence. Fuck, it’s been weeks since that argument in Cartman’s basement, but just seeing Kenny’s name has Craig’s skin crawling. He distantly wonders if Butters has spoken to him, ‘cause he sure as shit hasn’t spoken to anyone else. Actually, he hasn’t even _seen_ Butters since he got discharged from the hospital.

Goddammit, he’s been so swept up in his own shit, he’s forgotten to check in with the dude.

With a heavy sigh, Craig tightens his grip on his phone and inwardly promises to check up on the wayward blond when he gets home. He glances up to see how far he has to go and is relieved when he spies his house in the distance; the neighbourhood’s become incredibly cold during his walk and he swears the night sky has grown darker as he pauses in his stride. It’s not a natural chill though and every inch of his skin ripples with goosepimples as the hair pricks up on the back of his neck. There’s only one being capable of exuding such a creepy aura into the atmosphere and sure enough, one glance to the nearest rooftop reveals his stalker to be Mysterion. Well, speak of the devil and he shall appear in a cloud of purple smoke and audacious arrogance, apparently.

The cold, callous vigilante prowls down the house like a panther stalking its prey – he’s lithe and languid, moving slowly with cocky confidence which befits his whole aesthetic as he approaches Craig. The Brutalist rolls his eyes at the show because sure, he’s not a threat, but he’s certainly no one who needs to be fucking impressed either. Jesus Christ, the dude is _such_ a try-hard.

“What the _fuck_ happened today?” Mysterion growls, advancing upon Craig with dark violet eyes.

Craig arches a brow, not even remotely intimidated by the immortal bastard. Though Mysterion’s probably one of the most unique beings with powers, it’s a little hard to forget that underneath the beastly presence and dark cowl, he’s still a dorky NASCAR fanboy whose sister is sorta-kinda-maybe dating Craig’s.

He’s also a fucking _idiot_ who completely wrecked their whole friendship group and he hasn’t even _seen_ the guy since that day in Cartman’s basement, so Craig isn’t exactly feeling inclined towards civility.

“How about you start fixing your own relationship before giving me shit for mine,” he snipes back moodily, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes flash in warning, feels the electricity burning in the corners of his corneas – it doesn’t scare Mysterion though.

He’s pretty sure _nothing_ scares Mysterion.

Bastard.

“My relationship isn’t destroying innocent people’s livelihoods,” Mysterion intones, toneless with just a hint of frustration. Craig opens his mouth but closes it again as he remembers the destruction he had caused earlier with Tweek. The neighbourhood had been coated in frost, with nearby trees burned to cinders from wayward strikes of lightning. It hadn’t been all Tweek’s doing either, ‘cause Craig had totally wrecked the road with his fists and any cars nearby had been completely totaled. It had taken the media all but a few minutes before they went haywire with gossip and trash talk – Craig managed to skim through about five tweets before he had to turn his phone off.

He’s so fed up with being in the goddamn limelight.

And he’s also fed up with being scolded like a damn child.

“The last time you fought, sorry _flirted_ , with Chaos, you blew up an entire factory and two warehouses, which created hundreds of job losses, dealt financial and reputational blows to the Freedom Pals and led to Chaos getting blinded ‘cause you threw a fucking shuriken into his eye. But yeah, it’s _my_ relationship which is ringing alarm bells,” Craig throws back tiredly, ‘cause he is pretty fucking certain that it’s par the course when Chaos and Mysterion clashed – like _properly_ clashed, before they turned their fights into fucking _foreplay_ – the local area’s sure to be totally annihilated.

“You fought in a residential area, we don’t fuck with residential areas,” Mysterion argues, his fists clenching minutely as shadows lick at his ankles – he pointedly, _clearly_ , ignores Craig’s last point.

Still, he feels a flicker of remorse because, well, he’s _never_ wanted to cause such destruction to innocent people. Craig’s family has been on welfare for seven years and counting, like the _only_ reason he can envision himself going to college is with the help of a shit-load of scholarships and bursaries. He knows how much it sucks having barely anything to own and he knows how much it sucks to have that _barely anything_ sniped away without a moment’s notice. Regardless, he hates being called out on that kinda shit, especially by someone who _gets_ it and by someone who’s experiencing _worse_.

But.

Mysterion doesn’t need to know that.

“Funny,” Craig says dully, hitching his shoulders up defensively, “last time I checked, we weren’t a _we_.”

Murky satisfaction curdles in his stomach when the Netherborn’s violet eyes flicker, his lips twitching downwards unhappily – the feeling is fleeting though, as Mysterion straightens up with irritation lining his features.

“You might not be a Freedom Pal, but you’re still—” he begins, but Craig is _tired_ , and he’s fucking done with this shit for the night.

“Look, I’ll deal with it,” he interjects coolly, shrugging off the Netherborn’s concerns, “Coon and Friends has a contingency plan for this shit; just drop it.” The plan is completely Kyle’s doing, since no one really gave much thought to collateral damage apart from them; somehow, Kyle had managed to convince Cartman to create a pot of money from Coon and Friends’ funding to fix any destruction the heroes may cause during a job.

It’s proven to be a pretty popular service with the public and it’s helped raise their reputation around town – every little bit helps, especially considering who their competition is. It’s not like every superhero group gets a fucking rich kid in their roster and Craig knows that Token has poured more money into fixing Freedom Pals’ mistakes than the guy cares to admit.

“Don’t just deal with it,” Mysterion lectures, his deep voice biting the edge of irritation, “ _don’t_ let it happen again.”

“Bite me.”

There’s flickering conflict on Mysterion’s face and Craig knows that Kenny’s on the verge of replying with something vaguely dirty instead; it’s probably an instinctive response though, seeing as they’re not exactly on civil terms right now. Still, it’s strange to watch Kenny slip out of his stoic alter ego – it’s like a total mind-trip, seeing Kenny’s expression on Mysterion’s body, or hearing his natural soft voice emit from a dark, cold beast of a being, but it never lasts. That tiny spark of _Kenny_ is quickly snuffed out though and smoothly disappears beneath a shadow of disapproval.

“You’re not my type,” Mysterion says instead, before he turns neatly on his heel and stalks away gracefully, all pretentious prick wrapped up in purple Spandex and black leather. Craig flips him off as he watches the vigilante walk away, but then he remembers Tricia’s demand and sighs reluctantly as he jogs over to catch up. Mysterion clearly hears him coming and pauses in his stride, glancing over his shoulder with an oddly curious look, “what?”

“Ruby wants to know if Vamp can stay over tonight,” Craig says, using the codenames for their sisters. It had been Karen’s idea and though Tricia had thought it stupid at first, she clearly thrived in having an alter ego like her brother. He’s not sure why, but he’s pretty certain that Tricia will grow up to be some kind of terrifyingly competent villain should she gain powers and well shit, it makes him slightly proud. Tweek, on the other hand, had been utterly distraught by the idea, and had spent the rest of the night expressing how disappointed he would be if Tricia actually grew up to be evil.

If anything, he probably ended up spurring her on.

Tricia runs on a strange concoction of pride and spite, with only enough sweetness for Karen and Craig’s current guinea pig. Sometimes she even extends it to Tweek, and on rare occasions, to Craig and their parents too.

But like, _rare_ occasions.

Like, when his boyfriend breaks up with him.

Mysterion blinks slowly and once again, Craig sees a flash of Kenny through those dark violet eyes.

“Sure,” he says, still in his rough timbre, despite his words being all Kenny, “I’ll drop her off later – think you could take her to school on Monday on your way in?”

They might not be friends right now, but that’s no reason to punish their sisters for this shit. It’s certainly no hardship either, ‘cause Craig likes Karen; she makes Tricia a halfway decent human being to interact with, so he nods easily, “get me some more sawdust for Stripe VIII and you got a deal.”

“Stripe _VIII_?” Mysterion – _Kenny_ – questions, shaking his head softly, his expression delicately warm despite the tension in the air, “you gotta get more imaginative, dude.”

Craig arches a brow, “I’m sorry, aren’t you on your twelfth Mr Possy, asshole?”

Kenny cants his head, acknowledging the dig for what it is, “touché,” he says, before the fragile moment of civility ends and his soft expression hardens behind a mask of cold indifference – Jesus, and Craig thought _he_ had mastered the art of pretentious casual uncaring, “do not let this afternoon happen again.”

“You’re going to fuck up your voice, you know, that right?” Craig says as he wrinkles his nose, truly unimpressed with Mysterion’s attempts of intimidation.

Mysterion doesn’t respond – he simply blinks and disappears in a cloud of violet smoke. Craig rolls his eyes at the display and shakes his head.

“Who the fuck are you trying to impress, dude?” he calls out, “Butters already dumped your ass!”

His only response is the rustle of trees in the gentle wind.

* * *

Later, when he’s in his room after successfully securing Karen a place at the Tucker household, Craig receives a text.

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Craig Tucker]: the fuck? you talking to the trash? you going turncoat on me bro, you turning turncoat?

[Craig Tucker] sent to [Eric Cartman]: Delete my number and fuck off.

Craig rolls his eyes and tosses his phone on his dresser – the dude takes this shit _way_ too seriously.

* * *

Mysterion stalks around the corner of the alleyway, before coming to a pause when the U-Stor-It facility comes into sight. He’s always given it a wide berth whilst donning the cowl – out of courtesy, more than anything – but tonight is different.

Tonight, he has desperation thrumming through his veins and determination beating in his heart; tonight, he can’t just avoid the place any longer. He melts into the shadows and crosses the street, thankful that no one really comes this far outta town, especially now that the train station has closed down. He creeps up to the fence and eyes it carefully – locked and loaded with a high-grade security system, but still easy to scale.

Mysterion nimbly climbs up the fence, before pausing just before the barbed wire which coils along the top. He rests his weight upon his legs and tests the strength of the fence; after a couple of experimental bounces, he’s 87% certain he won’t die and so Mysterion pushes himself up, leaping over the fence in a neat flip, before landing solidly on his feet. He stays still for the merest moment, his ears pricked for the subtlest sound but it’s perfectly silent in the facility, with naught but the wind keeping him company.

The vigilant ducks into the shadows, padding across the U-Stor-It with fierce intent; he’s against the clock, so he can’t even risk wasting a second. He needs to carry out his mission, then get back home to drop Vamp off at Super Guy’s place before it gets too late. Fuck, this night is just too important to him, he _needs_ to get to the storage unit in time, because… because if he doesn’t… because if he messes _this_ up too…

Fuck. Mysterion’s already messed up once.

And _Kenny_ certainly didn’t make it any better.

So, he hopes Mysterion can fix this – third time’s the charm, and all that jazz.

He reaches a drainpipe which connects to the long building made of storage units and makes quick work of climbing up it, his movements nimble and silent. He has to take to the rooftops, ‘cause only fools attempt the front door and he’s done enough foolish things this week. The vigilante darts across the roofs, his cape whipping behind him as he makes his way towards his goal.

The sky is dark, and the breeze is cool, but the tranquil evening does nothing to quell the turmoil in his heart. His earlier conversation with Super Guy didn’t really help matters, nor did scolding Wonder Tempest for destroying an entire street; if anything, guilt nips heavily at his mind for not only fucking over his own relationship but his friends’ too. Logically, he _knows_ he has no control over his friends’ actions, but he’s always felt somewhat responsible for them. Kyle thinks it’s a brotherly instinct thing, but Kenny knows it runs deeper than that; it’s like, he doesn’t feel safe or comfortable until his friends are happy, doesn’t feel validated unless he’s made sure they’re all okay. Now that _he’s_ the reason for everyone’s distress, he’s kinda all sorts of messed up.

Mysterion reaches the roof of his target and sighs deeply – now’s not the time for fanciful feelings, so he shakes his head free of the lingering emotions and heads towards the vent. In one solid kick, the vent’s panel is destroyed, and he slips inside swiftly. He maneuvers his way around the tunnel, nervously wetting his lips as apprehension builds in his gut.

Thick purple shadows cradle his body as he meets the end of the vent and it’s almost like he’s being swaddled in a protective blanket of darkness and death. He fingers the slots in the panel and tries to peer through them; the unit is quiet and it’s too dark to see into it. He can’t smell the scent of burning lava, nor can he hear the familiar sound of crackling lightning.

Apprehension turns to stark terror as he punches through the panel and jumps down – he acts without thinking which is a mistake he would have scolded any of his allies for, but he’s quick to realise that it doesn’t have any ramifications. ‘Cause there’s a reason why he couldn’t hear, or fucking see anything in the goddamn vent.

Fuck.

Fuck.

 _Fu-uck_!

Mysterion peers around the dark unit and feels his heart shatter into dust. Absently, he knew he ought to have expected this, but his foolish heart held onto that small shred of hope like a lifeline and now that line has snapped and he feels utterly adrift and lost. He sways on the spot, unsure of what his next move is, what he ought to do next, but then his thigh vibrates – his phone buzzes incessantly in its holster, telling him that someone is shooting off rapid-fire texts and is demanding his attention. Mysterion has a small idea as to who it could be, and it doesn’t make him feel any better. Distantly, with eyes burning with unshed tears, he tugs his phone free and numbly gazes down at the cracked screen. He has a series of notifications from Coonstagram, as well as three missed calls and two texts from Karen.

He must have missed her messages during his run over to the storage facility, but it’s not like they’re informing him of anything he doesn’t already know.

[Vamp] sent: TRICIA SAYS I CAN STAY OVER!!!!! <3 <3 <3

[Vamp] sent: Woops! I MEAN RUBY!!!!!!!!

Her excitement is not as infectious as it ought to have been, for all emotion has been sucked dry from his body, leaving behind only muted regret and acrid guilt. He swipes away the message – there’s plenty of time to return home tonight now, no point in rushing shit anymore.

The vigilante’s eyes narrow as he takes in the next series of messages demanding his attention.

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: so

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: word on the street is that its mysterion v prof chaos, round two, tonight

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: leave the shuriken at home, lmao

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: hey hey hey, bet he says he’s gonna keep an eye on you

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: get it

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: you get it?

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: kenny?

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: hey kenny

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: don’t fucking ignore me cause we fell out

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: you threw a fucking ninja star in his eye, don’t be a little bitch

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: is he there though?

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: kenny?

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: kenny is he there?

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: LISTEN ASSHOLE, ANSWER ME BACK!

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO LOSE ANYMORE FRIENDS

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: not that we’re friends anyway, fucking asshole

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: but like, did you get that joke?

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: you can’t afford to lose friends??? do you get it?

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: cause you’re poor?????

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: kenny? did you get it?

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: it’s cause you’re poor

[The Coon] sent to [Mysterion]: kenny?

Mysterion sighs as he contemplates either blocking the asshole – _again_ – or at the very least, trying to answer his one legitimate question. Goddammit, as much as he loves Freedom Pals, the vigilante can’t help but miss the days where he worked alone and free from being pestered by asshole furries. Still, he should answer the guy at some point; even if they have fallen out, he _does_ deserve to know. But it will only piss The Coon off, ‘cause…

‘Cause it’s empty.

The fucking storage unit is _empty_.

His heart thuds heavily as he paces the cold, large space, shadows licking at his heels as he feels his emotions flood freely. Mysterion doesn’t express _feelings_ , bar rage and fury, and everything else which privately builds within Kenny, and he doesn’t show _weakness_ either; but he’s not really feeling Mysterion right now. Instead, that careful cage around his emotions just bursts open, leaving them to freely cascade around him. The container slowly fills with wisps of purple smoke, curling around him protectively as he tries to get a grip on himself. There’s not even a note, not even a single piece of hamster kibble, aluminium foil, _anything_.

It’s empty.

Chaos is gone.

He’s fucking _gone_.

* * *

Tweek stares numbly at his phone, re-reading the recent influx of messages until the screen turns dark from inaction.

Though Mysterion’s rebuke had been sent via text, Tweek’s ears still burn like he’s been scolded vocally; honestly, he had apologised profusely to the florist _and_ he had called Kenny first chance he could get. It’s not like he had much of a choice, considering he had been _left behind_ to deal with the fucking fallout, _again_ —

“Hey buddy,” Token’s soft voice breaks him from his increasingly bitter reverie and Tweek looks over his shoulder to see his friend passing him a hot cocoa, “you doing okay?”

Tweek takes the cocoa with a small smile as he takes in his friend’s appearance. Token’s dressed in the softest cashmere pyjamas and looks far too cozy for a Cyborg – his dark eyes glimmer with a bronze hue, his synthetic skin flickering with glowing gold veins, and if Tweek listens hard enough, he can hear the metallic whirring of Token’s limbs as he moves around. He’s always wanted to know if his friend had been born a Cyborg, but he’s pretty certain that Token was _made_ into one – his background is sketchy at best and Token’s never been happily forthcoming with the details.

Either way, the Blacks have always been passionately adamant that Token is their most beloved son, part-robot or not, adopted or otherwise, and that’s the only thing which really matters. Tweek watches quietly as Token gracefully folds his knees beneath himself as he sits opposite him, his own cup of cocoa held tightly between long fingers.

Tweek sighs as he curls up tighter on the windowsill, fingers clutching to warm porcelain, as he makes room for his friend. It’s funny, he’s only been living with Token’s family for a few months, but honestly, he feels like he’s been living here for _years_. Growing up, nearly every Friday and Saturday night had been spent at Token’s house for movie nights and sleepovers, before eventually graduating to house parties, so it hasn’t been a completely alien transition to make.

“I’m fine,” he answers in a quiet murmur, before he sits up with a frown and worries his lip nervously, _“ah,_ I’m sorry I didn’t come down for dinner—”

“Hey, no, it’s fine,” Token is quick to soothe, holding up a hand with a calm smile, “mom and dad get it. They put your dinner in the fridge and mom stuck the ingredients on a post-it, so you know what’s in it too. Uh, the cocoa is just whole milk, dark chocolate and some hot water, promise.”

Tweek deflates with relief; he’s thankful that Token’s mom is so patient with him, is so tolerant and ready to accept all his weird quirks. He can’t really eat without watching his food or drinks being made, he can’t go to restaurants or cafes anymore… he just can’t trust _anyone_ to make his food. He can’t trust _any_ food really and sometimes when he _does_ eat, he can still taste the bitter, salty flavour of _meth_. Since becoming estranged from his family and starting his journey to getting clean, he’s lost a lot of weight, but Token’s mom has made it her mission to ensure that he regains his health, as well as his trust in other people.

“She’s really nice,” Tweek says, breathing in the sweet scent of his hot drink, “I wish I could do more for her, to say thanks and stuff. I mean, she’s letting me grow stuff in the backyard, she helped me out with the coffeehouse, she’s doing so much...”

“Dude,” Token snorts fondly, “she’s like, three steps away from just starting the adoption process, trust me. She loves you. They _both_ do. It’s why dad is working so hard on your case.”

“You really think the, _nngh_ , restraining order will go through?”

“Well, he managed to scare your dad outta town and yeah, the coffeehouse might be in the Black name, but he’s pretty much given it to you,” Token pauses before he smiles reassuringly, “and he’s gone through all the paperwork to make him your legal guardian, so… I don’t see why the restraining order would be a problem.”

Tweek nods as he sips at the cocoa, wincing when the hot liquid scalds his tongue and burns his throat, “to be honest,” he begins, licking at his lips nervously, “it’s, _nngh_ , not _that_ which is bugging me honestly.”

“Oh… is it…” Token trails off, clearly unsure as to which topic is safe to broach; Tweek takes another small sip and feels a rush of affection for his friend’s considerate nature, “is it the, uh… _C_ -thing, or the _M_ -thing?”

“The _M_ -thing,” Tweek replies shortly, shifting uncomfortably, “I don’t get how she managed to avoid… _everything_! She paid for his bail! She, _ah_ , smuggled him outta town! She still delivers his messages and she told him that I live with you now! She, _nngh_ , still visits the shop! How! _How_ can she do all that when she _knows_ what he did to me! What they _both_ did to me!”

His grip on the mug tightens as he tries to figure his mother’s invulnerability to the law. Like, the law has _always_ been a tricky concept to Tweek; he knows it’s not always black and white, but at some basic level, he knew that what she’s done is illegal. But he supposes, considering they’re in _South Park_ , it’s not just as straight-forward as it is everywhere else in Colorado. It’s painfully ridiculous how this little mountain town just… utterly operates on its own wavelength.

‘Cause of course, only in _South Park_ would his father escape jail time for child abuse and drug use, whilst his mother escapes literally everything else. Honestly, Tweek’s just thoroughly glad that Token’s dad is a lawyer because he would be totally lost otherwise.

“I know she played dumb in court, but there _will_ be something we can get her on,” Token reassures him, reaching out to clasp Tweek’s shoulder softly, “child neglect, drug abuse, or whatever.”

Tweek nods, “right,” he murmurs hollowly, but his stomach still churns, and his heart still aches. There’s a tiny part of him which hopes the restraining order doesn’t get approved, because, well, she’s his _mom_. She’s always been the voice of reason in their house, has always been the person to hold him after nightmares, to rein his dad in whenever he got too fucking much, to book his appointments with Dr Norris, etc. Shit, Tweek doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ stop loving her, not really. Buddhist teachings dictate that supporting your mother and father is the greatest blessing in life, but he supposes his parents haven’t really supported him properly either, so he hopes Buddha can give him a break this time around. Besides, he knows that he’ll never get to be _healthy_ with her influence still looming over him.

After all, she’s picked a side and it certainly isn’t _his_.

So, he needs to completely cut them both out of his life – if he wants to actually _have_ a life.

The mere thought of actually getting to be free and healthy completely snuffs out that tiny flame of selfish hope; it’s replaced by a desperate yearning for his parents to just… leave him alone forever. For his dad and his mom to just leave the state, the country, the goddamn planet, and _never_ return. His mom’s unpredictable visits always leave him feeling flayed and raw, hence Token’s recent employment at Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse – it’s not so much about protecting Tweek, but more about keeping him from feeling hopelessly alone and to chase away the silence.

It used to be _Craig_ who kept him company… who would hang around the shop all day, who would stave off the cold clutches of isolation and despair, who would distract his visiting mom when her attentions grew too invasive or emotionally taxing…

But then… _well_ …

Tweek sniffs again and takes another slurp of cocoa – the thick, sweet liquid sludges down his throat and curdles in his stomach. Truthfully, he’s had worse stuff in his mouth and body, so it should have been comforting, but the drink only serves to make him feel nauseatingly ill. His eyes flick over to Token’s form; his friend is just sipping at his drink as he stares out the window with a content smile on his handsome features. Tweek knows he ought to feel comforted in the presence of his best friend, but really, he just feels sick and itchy and trapped.

The room he’s been given is big, spacious and he’s quickly filled it up with all of his belongings, but.

It’s _so_ fucking quiet.

Normally, he would hear his parents bickering downstairs, or even Craig’s family as they bantered lovingly; sometimes he would hear the TV, or the traffic from outside, but now there’s _nothing_. Token’s house is just so big that he can’t hear anything from downstairs and the road is pretty far away for him to hear any cars driving past. He’s not sure why, but the quiet is pretty anxiety-inducing and he would do anything for some background noise.

Token’s mom _has_ bought him a TV, but it’s yet to arrive; he _could_ play some music, but truthfully, there’s only one thing he really misses listening to…

“Do you think your mom would let me have a pet?” Tweek asks, his eyes falling to the ground as if Stripe would magically appear, scurrying and wheeking happily. She’s the fourth one he’s had with Craig, but he doesn’t love her any less than he had the others; she’s such a sweet little thing with long, brown fur and a lovely white face. He wishes he had managed to wrangle back ownership over her, but his stubborn jerk of an ex-boyfriend won’t budge until Tweek returns his laptop but _fuck_ that noise.

Craig didn’t stick up for him, so he _really_ doesn’t get to call the shots in their custody battle.

“A pet?” Token echoes, arching a brow as gold flickers across his face curiously. Tweek shrugs sheepishly as he smiles softly.

“I kinda got used to playing with Stripe whenever I got…” he waves a hand around airily, wrinkling his nose as he tries to explain how he feels, “overwhelmed. I miss her.”

“Yeah, I, uh— heard from Mysterion that you tried to get her back earlier?” Token asks, wincing slightly as he hunches his shoulders up in preparation for Tweek’s reaction. Which is kinda justified – just remembering his recent confrontation with Craig has his hackles rising and his blood boiling.

“ _Arrgh_!” he exclaims, punching the cushion beneath him with frustration, “he’s such a stubborn jerk! He was all, _give me my laptop back_ and I was all, _give me my fucking guinea pig back first_ , and then he told me to go fuck myself! _He_! Said that! To _me_!”

There’s a tiny beat of silence as Token blinks at him, clearly absorbing his words as he sips at his cocoa.

“Damn,” he finally utters weakly, but Tweek isn’t even close to being finished.

“Who does he think he is? He knows I’m going through _so_ much, _gah_ , shit right now! He should _know_ that I _need_ Stripe! Why, _nngh_ , how, _arghh_! I can’t even speak, I’m so mad, man!” Tweek declares, his mug dropping to the floor as he clutches at his hair; Token watches, looking horrified, as frost begins to grow on stray blond strands and he’s quick to shift closer.

“Hey, hey,” he croons, placing his own mug down as he gently peels Tweek’s hands away from his hair – the cold must be biting and sharp, even for a Cyborg, but Token demonstrably swallows down his discomfort as he rubs comforting circles against Tweek’s knuckles, “it’s okay, dude. You’re okay.”

“I’m, _urgh_ , sorry!”

“No man, don’t apologise,” Token murmurs, his eyes drifting to the dark stain on the carpet; guilt pricks at Tweek’s heart and he hopes that Token’s mom doesn’t get too mad, “just… breathe. It’s okay.”

“I’m falling apart, _fuck_ ,” he moans, his pale fingers clawing into Token’s dark skin; ice is quick to form beneath his nails and he hates himself for being incapable of controlling himself, “what do I do?”

“Well…” Token begins, sitting up and looking completely unfazed by Tweek’s actions; if anything, he holds onto the blond tighter, his smile growing warmer by the second, “don’t blame yourself. You’re in the middle of emancipating yourself, you’ve broken up with your boyfriend, you’re working _and_ you’re still going to school, whilst dealing with… well, staying clean. I’m surprised you haven’t snapped sooner,” Token says, his glowing eyes widening with faint horror, “dude, saying all that shit out loud has me feeling stressed the fuck out!”

“Yeah?” Tweek says, twitching as he considers Token’s words, “I think… I think I’m gonna ring Dr Goodall tomorrow. I don’t… _should_ I ring her? Is this a stupid thing to ring my therapist over? A dumb breakup?”

“No, dude. This isn’t dumb! You’ve been with Craig for like, seven years? That’s a long ass time! I think even I’d lose my head if Nichole broke up with me,” Token says, which Tweek knows to be true. Token’s never been shy about admitting that Nichole’s literally the best thing to have ever happened to him. Although, he used to think the same about _Craig_ and well, look at where they are now, “hey… have you spoken to Craig since breaking up with him, or was yesterday the first time?”

“First time.”

“Right… so, like, did you talk to him about how much you need Stripe?” Token asks patiently, tilting his head, “‘cause dude likes to think he’s some badass dick, but we both know he’s a doormat when it comes to helping out his friends. It’s kinda sweet.”

Tweek snorts because Craig’s secret soft side _is_ pretty endearing, but— _nope_ , he’s not doing this. He might be a Buddhist, but he is _so_ not ready to be forgiving and enlightened. Not until Craig apologises _first_ , or at the very least, he hands over the goddamn guinea pig.

Neither of which seem highly likely, so.

 _Fuck_.

Tweek deflates with defeat and closes his eyes as he remembers his earlier conflict.

“…no,” he reluctantly admits, “I just called him a fucking idiot for keeping her and blasted him with lightning. It’s… he doesn’t even _want_ to speak to me, man! Why should I waste time trying to talk to him!”

“I don’t know dude,” Token replies honestly, shrugging as he releases Tweek’s hands to pick some lint off his shirt absently, “Craig’s pretty… uh, what’s a nice way to describe him?” Tweek snickers at Token’s teasing tone, “He’s not very good at reading between the lines? Like, he needs neon signs to really understand what people are saying to him, and even then, I think he just closes his eyes so he can pretend they don’t exist.”

Tweek rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “Of course he does that! He’s, _urgh_ , he’s such a child! I, well, I think I hate him!”

“No, you don’t—” Token tries to interject, but Tweek doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want _logic_ right now, he just wants _support_ , even if it is all fake. Even if it means agreeing with blatant lies.

“Yes! I do! I hate him!” he asserts heatedly, ‘cause if he says it enough times, it might become true, “he threw me into a fucking flower shop!”

“—well, yeah, that _was_ pretty fucked up—”

“He didn’t even stick around to apologise! Who does that?”

“—I mean, you _did_ just break up with him, so—"

“Don’t make excuses for him! I just! He just! _Arghh_! How can one person be so frustrating! He feels _so_ bad for Butters, does he? Feels like forgiveness and second chances are beneath him? How can I be with someone who… who might not… I mean, what if I… I could… and he won’t—oh _Jesus_!” Tweek shrieks, before he feels Token take his hands again – the soft touch grounds him and he clings onto his friend as he tries to focus on his happy place. He counts to ten as he imagines playing with Stripe, watching Sailor Moon with Nichole, having his first dinner with Token’s mom and dad, hearing Craig confess his feelings for him, oh _fuck_ … his heart slowly returns to a steady beat as he wrestles his breathing under control, and he opens his eyes. Token just watches him, patient and understanding, and Tweek can only sigh tiredly, “can we stop talking about him, please?”

Token nods instantly, relief clear on his sharp features, “no problem, dude,” he says easily, squeezing Tweek’s hands gently before he releases them and sits back. He looks thoughtful for a moment, his brown eyes glazing over until he perks up with an eager smile, “hey, how about I ring Nichole and invite her around. We can hang out together and I’ll let you both watch Sailor Moon on my TV.”

Tweek smiles gratefully and feels himself grow overwhelmed with love for his friend as he slumps against the wall with exhaustion.

“Oh, you’ll _let_ us, will you?” he asks slyly, canting his head with a knowing smile.

“Yeah,” Token sighs, running a hand through his hair, “please don’t tell Nichole I said that.”

Tweek nods and holds out his pinkie, which Token takes easily with a grin – their fingers curl tightly together, electricity flowing freely between them, and the last of Tweek’s prickled nerves are softly soothed.

“I promise.”

* * *

[Craig Tucker] sent to [Butters Stotch]: Yo dude, you okay?  
Read at 22:48

“The bitch left me on read,” Craig mutters with a heavy frown, tapping away at his phone with one hand and using the other to feed Stripe the broccoli his mom tried forcing down him at dinner. An unsettling feeling begins to curdle in his stomach – he hasn’t really felt right since Tweek broke up with him, but Butters leaving him on read has all his alarm bells ringing.

The dude _never_ leaves someone on read, he’s just _that_ happy to have friends who want to talk to him, goddammit. It’s kinda sad, but Craig doesn’t linger on it for long, as Stripe nips sharply at his finger, thoroughly distracting him and causing him to hiss out a curse. He obediently passes the cavy a piece of celery and he feels his heart melt as his sweet girl nibbles away. For a moment, he idly wonders if Tweek really does miss her, considering how much he had fought for her earlier. It does something wicked to Craig’s stomach, but it had been pretty flattering to see Tweek’s devotion to his baby girl. Goddammit.

Fuck.

One thing at a time though…

[Super Guy] sent to [Coon and Friends]: Where the fuck is Butters?


	2. (You Can) Call on Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Please note: I'm using the character sheets from the game in regards to their gender and sexuality. Kyle is, therefore, agender and asexual and Wendy is a polysexual genderfluid person. Other character's identities will definitely be played around with, certainly Kenny and Butters (and Stan), but I'm using the game as a foundation for this story, so I'm taking bits and pieces from it.**
> 
>   
> **Token is down as gender-neutral in the game too, which will be explored at some point later in the story/arc <3**

“Okay, you got the flowers?”

“This is so stupid and reeks of insincerity; he got blinded weeks ago, why are we giving him flowers _now_?”

“It’s called being _polite_ , Kyle! What, you’ve never heard of being goddamn courteous now?”

“I’m surprised you know what that word means, you selfish fucking asshole!”

“Oh, bite me, you whiny bitch! Now, where’re the fucking flowers?”

“Up your fucking ass, you fat piece of—”

“Good morning boys,” Linda Stotch’s soft voice cuts across their argument with astonishing ease. Kyle chokes as they glance up at her weary face and feels guilt slam through their body like a sledgehammer. They never even heard the door open, _fuck_. They tighten their grip on the flowers they’re hiding behind their back but one glance at Linda’s face tells them that the shoddy bouquet probably isn’t enough.

Fuck, they could’ve brought a whole goddamn field full of fucking flowers and the gift still wouldn’t be enough to make up for all the shit Butters has suffered. Selfishly, Kyle had hoped that being on Butters’ side for once would’ve made things better, but judging by Linda’s cold look, it apparently doesn’t make a lick of difference.

“Good morning Linda,” Cartman quickly croons – he’s all melted sugar to cover up acrid venom, with a dimpled smile which stretches across his face and creases his round heterochromatic eyes. Kyle isn’t sure how the sociopath manages to pull off such an innocent façade and it will never cease to rile them up whenever they witness Cartman pull it off _successfully_ , “we were hoping to see our good friend Butters – is he in today?”

Linda’s gaze slowly drifts from Kyle to Cartman; her eyes look red and her sallow skin is framed by limp, oily blonde hair. She kinda _always_ looks disheveled but the dark bags under her heavy gaze are new which tells Kyle just how affected she is by her son’s recent disfigurement. She’s also shaking in a manner that has nothing to do with the cold mountain air and everything to do with her unstable state of mind to match her unstable state of a family.

“Oh, I don’t think letting you see him is such a good idea,” Linda says slowly, wrapping her arms around herself as she glances cautiously over her shoulder. Stephen Stotch has been suspiciously quiet _and_ absent around town, but Cartman has reported seeing him in his garden, puffing away sombrely at a blunt whilst arguing with someone on the phone. Speaking of which, Kyle stays quiet as they watch Cartman slowly digest Linda’s words – his smile tightens and his eyes burn with fierce irritation, but he maintains the sweet mask he’s carefully constructed. It’s equally impressive as it is horrifying to see.

“But we’re his friends,” Cartman says, with just the merest touch of a whine – his thick brows furrow together as he clasps his hands under his chin. If the Hybrid had his ears unclipped, they’d probably be flat against his head and his tail’s most likely tucked tight between his legs too. Kyle sighs and once again wonders _why_ they’re still friends with the manipulative asshole. Oh yeah, ‘cause their dad might be a misogynistic prick, but he’s better off alive and _not_ in a bowl of chili, “surely you wouldn’t keep his friends away from him in his time of need!”

Linda’s face grows sour at his words and Kyle takes a tiny step back; the wind clearly picks up on their anxiety as it coils around their legs and sweeps erratically through the air. The flowers slip slightly through their clammy hands and they begin to regret ever finding Cartman’s manipulative ways distasteful, ‘cause fuck. More than anything, they wished his magic worked now.

“His real friend – Dougie, I think – told me that you boys often played too rough with my little Butters and that this incident is only the peak of the iceberg,” Linda continues, her expression growing harder as a manic gleam begins to shine in her pale blue eyes, “so, please forgive me for saying this, but fuck you.”

“Wha— _Linda_!” Cartman gasps, scandalised.

“No, _fuck_ you,” Linda repeats with fierce confidence, her fists clenched by her sides as her body begins to shake from frustration, “get off my property and stay away from my family!”

Kyle can only wince when the door is slammed in their face.

The flowers fall to the ground as they try to digest Linda’s acidic words; they’ve never heard Butters’ mom sound so _angry_ before, ‘cause she’s normally a freaking _doormat_ , all docile and shit. Like, Kyle _knows_ that their friends have never treated Butters as properly as they ought to have, what with performing liposuction on him, hiding him in a bunker for a week, and routinely bullying him when they were younger, but.

Well.

Maybe blinding the guy had been the final straw for Linda’s unearthly patience?

Either way, Cartman certainly doesn’t appreciate the treatment, regardless of how deserved it is.

“Playing too rough? Are you fucking serious? Why don’t you ask your fucking husband about playing too rough with Butters! Or his fucking grandma! Or his fucked-up Uncle Budd!” the Hybrid snarls, pounding his fists on the door in a display of abject rage. Kyle’s seen him at his worst, and this is _nowhere_ near close to that level of vindictive yet, so they simply roll their eyes and hook their arms around Cartman’s chest to drag him away from the door.

“Enough Cartman,” they bite out behind gritted teeth as they hoist Cartman away from the Stotch’s house. It’s quite the battle as Cartman is pretty fucking heavy but has also unsheathed his sharp-as-hell claws, latching onto Kyle’s arms as he kicks and squirms to break free.

“No! Fuck that!” he declares, lashing out at Kyle’s grip and leaving behind thin trails of shredded clothing and bleeding skin, “she doesn’t get to keep us away from Butters! He’s our fucking friend and I—”

“—can’t do anything about it!” Kyle grits out, pushing Cartman towards his own home as they eye their wounds with a distasteful frown, “and if you cut me again, I’ll tear your goddamn tail off.”

Cartman blinks, his eyes narrow with hate and irritation; Kyle thinks they have a fight on their hands, but then, quick as whiplash, the Hybrid straightens up and smirks. It’s unnerving, quite frankly, ‘cause Cartman’s grown to be incredibly tall, but also broad as fuck. He’s built like a brick outhouse, but Kyle knows that looks can be deceiving, ‘cause the asshole still can’t fight for shit. Take away his claws and fangs and Cartman is pretty much useless.

His _mind_ though? That’s another matter.

“What are you thinking?” Kyle asks suspiciously, narrowing their eyes.

“Thoughts, Kyle,” Cartman purrs, rubbing his chin slowly, “I’m thinking _thoughts_.”

Well, shit.

“Okay,” Kyle utters slowly, casting a lingering glance at Butters’ house, “ask no questions?”

“Get no answers,” Cartman finishes with a vicious grin, his eyes sparkling madly as he joins Kyle in staring at the house before them. His expression promises mayhem and pain, but not the immediate kind, so Kyle feels safe in letting the matter drop for now. That being said, a shiver rips up their spine and pools at the base of their skull, causing goosepimples to erupt across their skin. They know to keep an eye on Cartman from here on out.

Still, they can’t ignore the fact that sometimes, just _sometimes_ , ignorance truly is bliss.

* * *

Craig awakens with a chirpy alarm ringing down his ear.

Blindly, he reaches across to his dresser and bats at where his phone’s been charging up all night. With bleary eyes, he snatches the phone up and sighs as he spies the same notification he’s been getting every morning at 7.00am since last year.

 _[drug up the bae]_ shines brightly across a high-definition photo of Stripe IV peeing on Clyde’s hands.

The little message appalled his mom when she had seen it, but Tweek had appreciated the little dark and humorous twist on his medication reminder. Craig doesn’t quite know why he still has it on his phone, ‘cause he’s pretty sure Tweek has his own reminder, _Token_ too, seeing as they’re living together, and all it serves to do is make him worry about his ex for no good fucking reason, but.

Well.

He can’t quite bring himself to delete it just yet.

Instead, Craig simply swipes it away and rubs tiredly at his eyes – another day, another load of bullshit to deal with. He kicks the covers off his body and drags himself out of bed with a stifled yawn; he’s feeling somewhat blessed that it’s a Saturday, ‘cause he’s not really prepared to go into school now that everyone’s probably heard of his antics with Tweek from the day before.

He’s already had Clyde and Jimmy sending him sympathy texts and he can _feel_ Token’s disappointment from across town, so Craig’s pretty much met his quota for eleventh grade bullshit this month. Padding across his room, he inwardly prays that he doesn’t encounter any of his family as he slips out into the hallway; the coast is clear, so Craig darts inside the bathroom to freshen up.

The first thing he does is check his reflection in the mirror; he can see that the bruises from Tweek’s lightning attack have faded somewhat, but the dark bags under his eyes have stubbornly remained and his nose still has the scratch across it from a wayward icicle. Still, he’s looked worse, so Craig doesn’t linger on his appearance too much as he brushes his teeth and washes his face. He runs a damp hand through his limp hair and finds himself comparing the thin, silky strands to Tweek’s thick, tangled locks. It’s a fleeting thought, brimming with wistful longing and as soon as it’s formed, Craig quickly pushes it down and forces it away from his mind.

He doesn’t know why he’s still thinking about his ex and quite frankly, it’s beginning to really stress him the fuck out; he really can’t afford any more anxiety too, not when he has to redo his entire English midterm paper as it affects his final grade, fuck. He had been really proud of the shit he had written on his laptop, ‘cause he needs a decent GPA in order to get the scholarships required for college. Now all of his motivation has vanished, ‘cause he doesn’t think he can write his paper out as well as he had the first time around, which means he’s gonna tank his midterm grade, which will ruin his final grade, which means his twelfth grade experience will start on a low point, which will ruin his chances of getting into college, which will ruin his chances of having a good career in cinematography, which—

“Craig! Honey! Time to get up!”

—Craig blinks as his mom’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. He winces as he looks down and realises that his grip on the sink has tightened to the point that he’s caused thin fractures to appear in the porcelain. He snatches his hands away and bitterly curses his own superpower – when his strength had first manifested, he had thought it _so_ cool to begin with. Now it’s just a pain in the fucking ass.

“Craig! I’m not letting you stay in bed all morning again! Come on!”

Cursing under his breath, Craig slips out of the bathroom and yells down the hall, “I did that _once_! Let it go!”

“I will when you get down here!”

“Let me get dressed first, fuck!”

“I just love how we all communicate from _separate fucking floors_!” Tricia adds in her two cents.

“Thomas, why are our children swearing in front of me?” his mom suddenly demands, and Craig takes advantage of her distraction to dash back inside his room to get dressed.

He swaps his boxers for a fresh pair, pulls on his skinny jeans, slips on his Vans and grabs a random t-shirt from his closet. As he pulls it on, he’s amused to find that it’s the one Token got him for his birthday last year – the Gucci shirt with the red snake in space. It probably costs more than anything else in his house and he makes a conscious effort to always hide it beneath a hoodie when he’s at home. Tricia will probably try to sell it and his parents will only pass out should they know their son is rocking Gucci threads. He has long since gotten over the initial shock of Token-style presents, ‘cause he knows it only makes the guy more uncomfortable when his gifts are rejected – though, Craig’s never really tried _hard_ to give his presents back.

Giving the mirror a fleeting glance, Craig deems himself acceptable for the streets of South Park and turns to leave his room; he grabs his phone, pulls on a hoodie and scoops up a chirping Stripe from her cage before making his way downstairs. He checks the device for notifications, but he’s only missed two texts from Clyde asking him if he’s okay. The first is pretty coherent, the second is composed entirely out of sad-faced cat emojis.

Craig chooses to ignore them both and tucks his phone away into his pocket; he makes his way through the lounge and finds his dad sitting at the dining table, fiddling away at his dumb ship in a bottle. He’s pretty sure his dad has _never_ been interested in constructing ships inside of bottles before, but he supposes Thomas needed a new hobby now that collecting ‘art’ is outta the window.

“Hey dad,” Craig greets with a lazy wave.

“Hey son, how’re you doing?” his dad greets him, his tone forcibly cheery as he drops his tweezers inside the bottle in an attempt to awkwardly wave back. Craig rolls his eyes and simply slides past him into the kitchen.

“I’m fine dad,” he replies flatly, a small smile curling on his lips as he sees Karen and Tricia giggling together at the kitchen table. Karen’s phase as a Vamp Kid has lasted longer than anyone really expected, with her black-and-purple hair scraped back into pigtails and her eyes smeared with smoky eyeliner. He doesn’t understand how his tomboy sister ended up being her friend, much less her sorta-girlfriend, but they kinda suit each other.

“Lesbians,” he acknowledges them with a respectful nod.

“Homosexual,” Tricia replies, her tone mockingly solemn.

Karen merely laughs and waves at him, her eyes lighting up when she spies Stripe in his arms.

“Good morning Craig,” she trills sweetly, swinging her legs beneath the table happily, “good morning Stripe.”

Craig bites back a smile as he holds the cavy up to her. “Morning Karen,” he chirps, pitching his voice slightly as he waves Stripe’s tiny paw at her. Stripe bucks her head up in annoyance and he dutifully puts her leg down and carefully drops her onto the table. She’s immediately accosted with all the pets and scratches her heart could desire, complete with Karen cooing incessantly over her with a soft smile.

“Welcome to seven in the morning on a weekend, sweetie,” his mom teases as she kisses the back of his head; Craig leans into the affection, lowering his defenses for the merest moment before she takes advantage of his vulnerability to playfully bat at his shoulder, “what did I say about animals at the table?”

“But you let Tricia sit there,” he protests, before he approaches the fridge for food – his sister emits a dry, mocking laugh, flipping him off with both hands as she glares at him heatedly.

“Oh wow, you are so fucking funny and original,” she says, ducking Laura’s hand when she goes to admonish her with a smack too, “you could give Jimmy a run for his money.”

“Yeah? Maybe we can finally get off welfare then,” Craig mutters, sighing when Laura bats at him again. He opens the fridge to see what he can scavenge and is disappointed, but not surprised, when a piece of cutesy artwork greets him instead. “Dad, you missed one,” he announces, pulling the drawing out as he wrinkles his nose – goddammit, it’s actually pretty good too. The artist has sketched him and Tweek, all dolled-up like a bride and groom, with Stripe as their little flower girl. There are hearts and stars and he’s pretty sure it’s been smudged recently with freshly shed tears. He holds up the paper between two fingers, like it’s moments away from bursting into flame, and wiggles it pointedly at his dad.

“Oh shoot!” his dad blurts out, rushing over to snatch it from him, “sorry son! I thought I had them all!”

“It’s fine,” Craig says, furrowing his brow, “just… why the fuck was it in the fridge?”

His dad blinks and ducks his head, his eyes growing suspiciously wet as he stares at the drawing.

“Sometimes… when it’s late at night and I can’t sleep, I like to eat my feelings whilst looking at what could have been,” his dad admits, his grip tightening on the artwork as he sniffs, “I’m, uh, I’m sorry, I-I have to go.” And then he turns on his heel and stalks out the room, ignoring Laura’s sympathetic sigh and Tricia’s embarrassed moan.

There’s a very telling sob before the basement door opens and closes.

“He’s still struggling – give him time and he’ll get over it,” his mom says, her eyes soft despite the tightness of her smile, “how are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Craig says stubbornly, snatching up a Capri-Sun and slamming the fridge door behind him. He winces when several magnets fall and clatter to the ground – goddammit, they’ve all tried so hard to keep their identities hidden from their parents, but it would be _his_ dumb fucking strength which would end up outing them all.

“Are you sure?” his mom continues, canting her heard as her brows knit together with threads of concern and worry, “when was the last time you saw Tweek?”

“I don’t want to talk about him mom,” he says, picking up the fallen magnets and sticking them back onto the fridge; he’s kinda thankful for the task as it lets him avoid his mom’s penetrating stare a moment longer.

“I know, but it’s just such a shame. Your little boyfriend was such a sweetheart, so respectful and polite, god I hope he’s okay,” Laura says mournfully, clutching at her heart with her hand as her eyes glaze over momentarily; she had doted on Tweek, just like she had doted on Clyde when his mom passed away and how she continuously dotes on Karen and Kenny whenever they visit. She had also been one of the driving factors behind Tweek’s successful estrangement from his parents and Craig is pretty sure she did some illegal shit at the bank to help transfer some funding over to him. His mom can be incredibly embarrassing, but he’s kinda proud of how fierce she can be too, “oh, you two have been through so much together… would it really be worth throwing all that away over one little fight? You still haven’t told me what happened!”

“Y’know, I think dad could do with a little supportive reassurance,” Craig says pointedly, biting the words out with an irritated glare.

“I’m trying to give it to my son!”

“And I’m saying it’s wasted on me, give it to dad.”

“Fine,” his mom gives up, throwing her hands in the air as she stalks out of the kitchen, “but I love you and I’m here for you and there’s nothing you can do about it!” She emphasises her statement by slamming the basement door open and shutting it loudly behind her. Honestly, she can be way too fucking dramatic at times.

Tricia whistles lowly in the silence left behind and Craig glares at her in mild annoyance.

Karen continues playing with Stripe like nothing weird has happened at all and honestly, Craig just appreciates her tolerance for all things fucked up and crazy. Although, seeing as her brother is an immortal eldritch abomination, he supposes she has a high standard for ‘fucked up and crazy’ things. Dang, how the girl stays all chipper and shit is beyond his comprehension. That being said, her Vamp Kid phase does clash horribly with her sunny, cheery outlook on life, which piques his curiosity somewhat. Craig eyes her purple hair and hums thoughtfully, wondering how _Kenny_ feels about Karen’s new look.

“Hey Karen, I’m liking the hair,” he says, sipping at his Capri-Sun slowly, “you’re really dedicating yourself to the alter-ego, _Vamp_.”

“Yeah,” Karen says absently, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, “my friend Bloodrayne did it for me – the Vamp Kids are pretty nice, I don’t know why they get such a bad rep.” Craig shares an arched look with Tricia behind Karen’s back, ‘cause he’s pretty sure the Vamp Kids are total fucking losers who have terrible taste in pretty much everything and delude themselves into thinking they have _real_ powers, “also, Kenny _hates_ it.”

“Right on,” Craig quips with a smirk, lazily pumping his fist in the air, “fuck the haters, you’re a strong, independent woman and I whole-heartedly condone the dyeing of your hair and the pissing off of your brother.”

“Thank you,” Karen replies back with a soft, wry smile, “I really appreciate getting your unsolicited approval.” Craig salutes her with his Capri-Sun, ‘cause he likes her soft sass – she’s the sweetest McCormick to walk the streets of South Park and everyone knows that it’s down to Kevin and Kenny working their asses off to make sure she remains unscathed from their parents’ lifestyle.

Still, he has to give props to the brothers, ‘cause they’ve managed to make something of themselves too. Sure, Kevin had to go through intensive rounds of rehab for alcoholism, but Shelly Marsh is quite the terrifying pillar of support and has consistently aided him in getting healthy before finally landing him a job at the local gym. Then there’s Kenny, who hasn’t touched drugs since they were ten and well, Craig’s pretty sure he has Randy Marsh to thank for that – the fucker single-handedly managed to put all his friends off alcohol and weed for life in one fell swoop.

Craig’s certain that the McCormick-cycle of substance abuse has finally been broken and honestly, thank _fuck_ for small mercies.

“Hey Craig?” Karen pipes up, breaking Craig from his little reverie; he glances up at her and nods, motioning for her to continue, “will you and my brother become friends again? It’s becoming a real downer for me and Tricia and even _Ike_ says he can’t hang out with me ‘cause of his dumb Canadian loyalty.”

Craig blinks and narrows his eyes at her, “pretty sure that’s racist.”

“No, I’m quoting him,” Karen asserts, “he literally called me and said that he’s got ‘dumb Canadian loyalty’ and has to be with his brother in these ‘trying times’.”

“Okay, whatever,” Craig says, averting his eyes away from Karen’s pleading gaze, “listen, I can’t be friends with your brother right now, ‘cause he’s a fucking idiot who ended up bringing his relationship drama into all our lives.”

“But you’re also a fucking idiot and you’ve brought your relationship drama into my life, so what’s the damn difference?” Tricia deadpans with a matching flat glare.

“Tweek can still see out of both eyes, so there,” Craig says flatly, “that’s your difference.”

“Oh my god, Kenny is so sorry about that though!” Karen protests, shooting a doleful look at him with her large hazel eyes, “like, he can’t sleep by himself because he gets nightmares and he just wanders around the house looking like a broken baby. He started crying the other day, ‘cause Kevin told him that he and Shelly were going to a bar called _Leo’s Pride_ in Denver! He cried ‘cause of the name!”

“Dude, what a fucking loser,” Craig snorts, which doesn’t impress Tricia one bit.

“The day Tweek broke up with you, you came home and demanded that dad _burn_ his collection of gay artwork in front of you, before locking yourself in the bathroom so you could cry in the shower for two hours,” she says flatly before she turns to Karen with an arched brow, “he cries specifically in the shower, ‘cause then he can pretend that he actually isn’t crying,” she pauses before she juts her chin out, “and _that’s_ a quote.”

“Oh, Craig…” Karen says sadly.

“What’s your point?” Craig asks, blinking blankly.

“I’m going to hit him,” Tricia tells Karen, which has her probable-girlfriend giggling madly in her seat, all signs of unhappiness completely vanishing from sight.

Craig opens his mouth to retort, but his pocket suddenly vibrates, alerting him to a new message. He holds up his middle-finger which Tricia scoffs at and digs his phone out, furrowing his brows when he sees who the message is from. He throws a fleeting glance to the clock and sighs – it’s way too early for this shit, but here they are…

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: attention all c.a.f.

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: chaos is awol

[The Human Kite] sent to [Coon and Friends]: He’s not AWOL, he’s been sent to stay with family whilst he recovers. I asked my dad and he says there’s some loophole in the medical insurance where Chaos can get his eye fixed at an affordable rate with whoever the fuck he’s staying with. That’s why we haven’t seen him around since getting discharged from hospital.

[Super Guy] sent to [Coon and Friends]: Thought it got fixed already?

[The Human Kite] sent to [Coon and Friends]: No dude, assholes just slapped a bandage on it and told his parents it was too late to save the eye. My dad says his parents are hoping this other place he’s been sent to can get him a transplant or some shit.

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: translation: butters’ parents are fucking assholes for keeping that shit a secret and we should kick the fuck out of them for not being very forthcoming with that information

[Captain Diabetes] sent to [Coon and Friends]: That wouldn’t be very heroic of us Coon! I’m sure they have a very good reason for not telling us!

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: it’s the coon, you diabetic dickweed

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: i’m thscott malkinthson and i have diabeteths

[Super Guy] sent to [Coon and Friends]: It’s not as funny over text.

[The Coon] has blocked [Captain Diabetes]

[The Coon] has blocked [Super Guy]

Craig rolls his eyes and tucks his phone away; he hasn’t got time to deal with Cartman’s bullshit today. He has to get to the library to hopefully rewrite as much of his English assignment as he can before he heads off to Bebe’s house to check out his new threads. The blonde had assured him she would have gotten it finished by the evening, which is pretty impressive considering the demand she’s under.

Being a superhero’s seamstress is no easy gig, especially when your clients are your childhood friends who have never really grown out of being selfish dickheads.

Fuck, he needs to be nicer to Bebe.

“Alright,” Craig announces decisively with another slurp of his drink, “I’m heading out.” He throws the empty juice pouch into the bin as he walks past his sister and Karen; he pauses for a moment and points at Stripe, “she’s in charge and when she’s asleep,” he points to Karen, “you’re in charge, and should you fall asleep,” he points to Tricia, “wake her up, ‘cause I sure as fuck ain’t leaving you in charge of anything.”

“Aren’t your parents still in?” Karen asks with a tilt of her head, “so we don’t need to be in charge?”

“And that’s why you’re second in command,” Craig says, striding out of the kitchen towards the front door, “rock on lesbians; have fun dismantling the patriarchy or whatever the fuck it is you do on a Saturday.”

“We will,” Tricia and Karen chime together, their sweet voices hiding dangerous intentions.

He’s kinda glad that he’s escaping the house whilst he can – his sister and her somewhat-girlfriend can be mad unnerving when they choose to be.

* * *

Kenny eyes Butters’ window warily.

He doesn’t like coming to his ex-boyfriend’s house unannounced – not since last time, when Stephen Stotch had ruined what could’ve been a lovely dinner. Fuck, Butters had tried so hard, had dressed up, had cooked a surprise dinner, had been _so_ excited to formally introduce his parents to his boyfriend… and his goddamn dad just spent the entire evening ruining it by ripping into Kenny, destroying him from the inside out.

Even Linda had looked vaguely horrified as her husband verbally tore him apart, scrutinising him and insulting him – he had gone from Kenny’s past troubles with addiction, to his consistent poverty-stricken state, to even deriding his family for their questionable choices in life, which had _really_ riled him up.

Like yeah, chew Kenny out for his shitty decisions, but don’t fucking come at him for his parents.

And _especially_ don’t come at him for his siblings.

Either way, Kenny has been banned from the house, but oddly enough, he hasn’t been banned from Butters’ life completely. Probably ‘cause his ex-boyfriend told his parents they had broken up, when in reality, the incident had only brought them closer. Not many people realise just how _angry_ Butters is all the time and just how hard he works to maintain his sweet disposition, but that night had been too much to bear; his boyfriend had been _furious_ and ended up descending upon the streets as Chaos to unleash his repressed frustrations.

Fuck, the inevitable showdown and attempts to calm his boyfriend down still haunts Kenny.

With a shudder, he shakes away the dark memories and eyes the tree next to Butters’ window; his parkour skills are pretty top-notch, but he’s still the unlucky fuck who dies at the drop of a hat. He wants to beg Butters’ forgiveness, not scar him by dying outside his bedroom window ‘cause of some dumb tree – especially when that same dumb tree has already killed him multiple times previously.

Wrinkling his nose, Kenny pushes up the sleeves of his jacket and limbers up, stretching out his arms and legs as he eyes the branches he has climbed, and also been killed by, numerous times before. He quickly glances around the street and deems it quiet enough before he begins his ascent; he’s more concerned about witnesses to his potential death and less concerned about someone calling the cops on him for ‘breaking and entering’, ‘cause everyone in South Park knows that the youngest McCormick boy likes to play Romeo sometimes.

The real secret is that he kinda gets a kick outta playing Juliet too.

But like, only _six_ people know that secret and two of them are his siblings, so they don’t really count.

Gritting his teeth, Kenny psyches himself before he jumps up to grab hold of the lowest branch and hoists himself up the trunk. He pulls himself up through the tree, dodging the branches which have killed him before and avoiding the nests of vengeful birds who don’t appreciate boys knocking out their homes. The climb is more convoluted than it has any business being, but eventually, he arrives at the branch which stretches towards Butters’ window. It’s the longest, which is helpful; but it’s also the weakest. _Unhelpful_.

Kenny carefully rests upon it before he reaches up to the branch above him and holds on tight, lifting himself until he can stand up. He’s done this a hundred times before and he’s died falling from this very branch about a couple of dozen times, or so. Making sure to keep most of his weight off his lower body by holding onto the branch above him, Kenny shuffles his way towards Butters’ window until his hands have no more branch to hold onto.

He wets his dry lips and slowly releases the tight grip he has and ducks down – he has to act quick, or the branch will snap or bend underneath his weight, so Kenny sucks in a breath and jumps towards Butters’ house.

Kenny bodily hits the bedroom window with a dull thud, his fingers scrabbling against the worn wooden frame for purchase. He digs his nails into the wood and leans against the glass, half-sitting on the ledge as his feet press up against the brickwork. With a hard squint, he glances inside the room and bites his lip when he finds it empty too. He purses his lips and reaches down to pull the window up – his heart freezes in his chest when his fingers scrabble uselessly at the frame. There’s no give, no wiggle, not even the slightest goddamn shift. Kenny swallows hard around a stubborn lump in his throat as he finally accepts defeat. The window is locked.

It’s locked.

It’s _never_ fucking locked.

Butters always leaves it open, because sometimes Kenny needs to leave his house to be safe. Because Kevin has Shelly and Karen has Tricia, and Kenny… well, he was _supposed_ to have Butters. Sure, he could go to any of his friends but Butters never asked questions like Stan, he never demanded justice like Kyle, never mocked him like Cartman… he just _left_ his fucking window open. He just lets Kenny crawl into his room and hides away from the world in a nest made of blankets, Butters’ arms, Butters’ love and Kenny’s darkness which coils protectively around them. His dad couldn’t touch him in Butters’ room, his mom couldn’t disappoint him, his friends and siblings couldn’t leave him – in Butters’ room, Kenny felt safe from a universe which despised his very existence.

And.

Well.

 _Shit_ , he doesn’t have that anymore and he only has himself to blame.

“Stephen!” Kenny freezes when he hears Linda’s voice through the window next to Butters’ and dearly hopes he isn’t about to be busted. “Stephen! Are you sure we should have sent Butters away? I just can’t concentrate on this movie because I’m too busy worrying about our little boy.”

 _Holy shit_ , Kenny thinks with horror, _they fucking sent him away?_

He sinks against the window and stares at the ground, his gut churning and his mind spinning as he listens further.

“Linda, honey,” Stephen’s voice is low and crooning, full of condescension and pure bullshit, “it’s for the best, I told you this. You know we barely have the money or the time to look after a disabled son; this way, he has the highest chance of getting better and we have the highest chance of not footing the bill.”

“Oh yes, I suppose you’re right,” Linda replies softly, and Kenny has to strain his ears to catch her words, “at least he’s still with family and away from those horrid little friends of his. Oh, I hope they stay away from him.”

“Linda, please! I wouldn’t just toss our only son to the curb,” Stephen says proudly, “now, how’s about I turn up the movie; that way, it might drown out your senseless worrying.”

Unbridled rage begins to burn in Kenny’s veins as the volume on the television is turned up, blasting the bullshit film throughout the house. His fists begin to shake against the window frame as he tries to calm himself down, ‘cause it will do _no one_ any favours should he start a rampage. Fuck, how he wants to though; he can almost taste the copper on his tongue and can almost feel the bruises on his knuckles.

He quells the desire.

Jumps back to the tree.

Settles against the trunk when he doesn’t die on the branches and tries hard to steady his breathing.

Butters wouldn’t want him to just slaughter his parents – he had told him as such, one night whilst they were protected by blankets and darkness. Just like Kenny still has a lingering affection for his parents, Butters has a twisted attachment his mom and dad. He doesn’t want to see them dead; he just wants them to stop hurting him.

Kenny doesn’t know how to achieve that though, ‘cause they ain’t scared of Mysterion and he doesn’t dare take a swing at them. He thinks he won’t be able to stop, once he starts.

To distract himself, Kenny pulls out his phone; it’s completely beaten up and used to belong to Cartman. The screen is cracked beyond repair, but it’s still usable; he unlocks and feels his heart shatter once more when the phone illuminates with a photo of Butters, giggling as he tries on Kenny’s old parka. Swallowing hard, Kenny opens up Coonstagram and sends a message out to his Freedom Pals. The sooner they know, the better.

Plus, he foolishly hopes it will cut down on invasive questioning down the line…

[Mysterion] sent to [Freedom Pals]: Chaos is out of town.

[Mysterion] sent to [Freedom Pals]: The Stotch house can no longer be considered friendly territory.

[Tupperware] sent to [Freedom Pals]: With or without masks??

[Mysterion] sent to [Freedom Pals]: Both.

[Toolshed] sent to [Freedom Pals]: shit. guess that’s us off their christmas card list, huh?

Kenny rolls his eyes at Stan’s priorities; he tucks his phone away and curls up into a tight ball on the branch. He can see barely see into Butters’ room now and for some reason, it makes his stomach twist harder. With a sigh, he traces the idle patterns on the bark and wonders if it’s worth trying to track his ex-boyfriend down, ‘cause he’s only met a handful of Butters’ extended family and honestly, they can be pretty chill.

However, he’s got this sinking feeling of apprehension churning in his gut and deep down, Kenny knows that it isn’t _Linda’s_ side of the family who is looking after Butters right now.

Fuck.

He kinda wishes Kevin could come back from Denver soon; he’s busy having a totally romantic weekend with Shelly Marsh, but Kenny’s broken heart surely comes first, right? Like, he could talk to Karen about this shit, but she wouldn’t exactly get it – she’s never experienced being a total fuck-up, which is a good thing, but Jesus Christ, Kenny needs to talk to someone who’s messed shit up like he has.

Kevin isn’t around though; his parents are outta the question and his friends have their own shit to deal with. He doesn’t want to inflict his problems onto them _again_ , it’s what got everyone into this fucking mess in the first place.

Instead, Kenny just stays curled up on the stupid tree and sighs into his hands.

It’s.

Kinda funny, in a fucked-up sorta way.

How some people regard Mysterion as a _hero_ , how Butters used to see him as a _good guy_ , how Karen sees him as her Guardian Angel, when in reality, he couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s not something he even wanted to be, or even aspired to achieve, not really; he just wanted to clean up South Park and make it a safer place to live for his friends and family. He just wanted his immortality to _mean_ something, even though it’s still a shitty power to have, even though it still hurts and even though death still terrifies the shit outta him.

In the end though, he hasn’t protected _anyone_ , and South Park is still as shitty as ever.

“Hero,” Kenny scoffs to himself as his eyes slide shut, “what a fucking joke.”

* * *

Clyde knows it’s probably a fruitless task, but he still finds himself standing outside Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse.

He hasn’t told anyone he’s coming, ‘cause he knows what kinda reaction he’ll get; contrary to popular belief, he isn’t stupid, he does know that what he’s doing isn’t exactly the smartest thing to do, it’s just that. He just.

He _misses_ his friends.

Like, a whole fucking lot.

So, he takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders back – it’s partly out of nerves, but it’s mostly ‘cause his wings are pressed and curled tight around his body. He wishes he could have them out freely, but they tend to get in the way, which only leads to them being torn; plus, there’s the whole _secret identity_ thing he’s got going on. Bebe has helpfully enforced the fragile wingspan with Mylar and polyurethane, but they still aren’t very comfortable when bound to his body. At the very least, he’s grateful he isn’t _Cartman_ – for a number of reasons, but largely ‘cause the other Hybrid has to deal with a fucking tail being tucked between his legs which cannot be comfortable at all.

Once he feels like his wings have settled, Clyde takes a firm grip on the handle and before he can second-guess his actions, he stalks inside the coffeehouse.

All of his confidence immediately seeps out of his body when he sees Tweek; or rather, when he sees who Tweek is serving. Clyde hasn’t seen either of Tweek’s parents since the dramatic showdown between the Blacks and the Tweaks a few months back, but he knows that Tweek’s mom frequently drops back into town to inquire about her son, or to pester the boy himself by showing up at the shop unannounced.

She’s as hot as ever, with recently cropped fluffy hair and bright red lips, but her eyes have always left Clyde on edge. They’re hazel and often glazed over, but right now they’re brightly pierced and focused totally on Tweek. The Elementalist behind the counter already looks visibly harassed, with his hair matted against his head and his shirt clenched between tight fists as he tries to stand up to her.

“I already _have_ a doctor!” Tweek says, shaking slightly as he stares down at the countertop.

“But Dr Norris is a family friend, sweetie—” his mom argues and Clyde wonders where Token is and if he knows that Mrs Tweak has invaded the place.

“He’s, _nngh_ , not my friend!”

“Now Tweek, listen to me, I only want what’s _best_ —"

“Hey Mrs T,” Clyde drawls, batting his eyes playfully as he interrupts the tense moment before it can get any worse. He’s very rarely had to play mediator between Tweek and his parents, but he’s seen Craig do it enough times to know when to step in, “I’m liking the new ‘do.”

“Oh,” Helen utters, turning to him with faint surprise in her eyes before her lips curl into an indulgent smile, “why thank you Clyde,” she continues, her soft voice lilted like she’s caught in a dream. She unnerves Clyde, honestly, but he’d rather be stuck in a room with her than Tweek’s dad. Talk about a _talker_ – his monologues are honestly so confusing and he’s pretty sure the dude’s offered him drugs like five times, but at least Tweek doesn’t live with him anymore, “you’re such a sweet boy.”

“Not as sweet as your muffins,” Clyde flirts, only to choke on his words when a broom lands firmly against his head.

“Stop flirting with my, _argh_ , mom!” Tweek scolds, reaching across the counter with a fierce frown – he wields the broom like Call Girl holds her baton and Clyde has to take at least three steps back to feel somewhat safe. Tweek’s mom just merely smiles in that eerily empty way and turns to give her son a short wave, wiggling her fingers at him with an _almost_ affectionate glint in her eye.

“It’s so nice to see you playing with your friends again,” she says with that same sing-song lilt, “hopefully we can spend more time together when I visit you next.” Then she drifts out of the store without a second look back, leaving behind nothing but awkward silence and thick tension. Clyde just watches her walk away and whines sharply when he feels the broom bop him on the head again.

“What did I say about flirting with my mom!” Tweek chastises, his grip tightening to the point where ice begins to flare out against the wooden handle.

“Hey dude, I’ll stop flirting with your mom when you start flirting with Craig again!” Clyde throws back, rubbing at his head with a wounded pout.

“We broke up!”

“Children grow up a lot happier with both parents, Tweek! Stop wrecking our family!”

“ _What_ family?”

“You know,” Clyde gestures uselessly in the air, arms flapping between their bodies, “ _our_ family! Our bros!”

“I was never your _bro_ ,” Tweek says, which genuinely hurts Clyde to hear. Like, okay, Tweek hadn’t been an OG member of their group, but he’s still _family_ , why doesn’t he get that? And with him living with Token, that makes him practically Token’s brother! And Craig is practically Clyde’s brother and Jimmy is like their cool cousin – or creepy uncle, depending on the day – and if Tweek and Craig get _married_ then they’d all be linked up, it would be totally sick! “And my life doesn’t revolve around Craig, getting together with Craig, or breaking up with Craig, man! I wish for, _nngh_ , one damn second, people remembered that I’m my own person!”

Clyde blinks at the clear frustration which leaks from Tweek’s tone and wonders how long this has been festering inside his friend. He opens his mouth to say something – an apology, an excuse, _anything_ – but then he’s quickly interrupted by a stern voice.

“Clyde, what the hell are you doing here?” Token asks, stepping out of the backroom with an unimpressed expression. Clyde gapes at the apron tied around his waist before he shakes his head and furrows his brow, gesturing to Tweek insistently.

“I’m trying to fix their mess Token!” he says heatedly, feeling oddly wounded when Token rolls his eyes derisively.

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” the rich kid replies, folding his arms across his chest, “it’s _their_ mess, not yours, not mine, _not_ Jimmy’s. We need to stay out of it and let them sort it out by _themselves_.”

Tweek twitches irritably, “ _if_ we sort it out!”

Token looks at him askance. “ _When_ you sort it out,” he says dryly, before he returns his attention to Clyde, “you’re not supposed to be here anyway – this is Freedom Pal territory. Go back to Raisins.”

“Dude, come on, let’s drop that shit for a second!” He’s admittedly shocked that Token’s brave enough to just talk about _hero_ stuff out loud, but he guesses the coffeehouse is a safe space for all things super, “I just want to help you, Tweek. You know Craig, he’s all,” Clyde waves his hand airily in the air, ‘cause it’s kinda hard to really _describe_ Craig, “he’s all leg and no brain!” He’s proud when he spies the twin amused grins on his friends’ faces, but it’s a fleeting feeling as they’re quick to cover up their smiles with disapproving frowns.

Dang, Tweek’s been living with Token for like, a handful of months and already they’re acting like those creepy Shining twins.

“Craig _has_ a brain,” Tweek says, his gaze skittering off to the side when Token shoots him another look, “which is why it’s, _urgh,_ so annoying that he’s acting like _this_!”

“Dude, let me just talk to him and—”

“Clyde!” Tweek suddenly snaps, his cheeks flushing as he narrows his eyes at the Hybrid, “I have bigger shit to deal with right now than my jerk ex-boyfriend, or did you forget my mom was just here?”

“Yeah, I know you’re dealing with a lot, I’m trying to help—”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your help!” Tweek interrupts again, hunching his shoulders up defensively as the coffeehouse falls into silence; granted, it wasn’t busy to begin with, but now it’s full of sickening tension and Clyde feels his skin crawl knowing that he’s the cause of all this shit.

“Is this jock-asshole for real?” a dry voice pipes up, and Clyde snaps his head around in irritation, only to blink in surprise when he sees the Goth Kids from their school. They’ve taken over a whole table in the corner of the shop and they’re surrounded by empty coffee cups and a cloud of thick judgment.

Normally it’s a cloud of thick smoke, but it’s illegal to smoke indoors; that being said, Clyde reckons it’s less to do with that and more to do with the fact that Tweek has very strong, and loud, opinions and theories about cigarettes and what the government puts in them.

“Oh my god, I cannot believe you fake-ass conformists have sunk to this level of disrespect,” one of the Goth Kids remarks, eyeing Clyde with thinly-veiled contempt through his veil of red hair, “leave Tweek and his broken heart alone.”

“Life is pain and he needs to embrace it, lest it tears him apart,” the smallest Goth Kid sighs despondently, staring into his mug with dark eyes.

Their words leave behind a heavy beat of silence, broken only by Clyde’s noises of disbelief.

“You’re hanging out with _them_ now?” he asks, his eyes wide with incredulity.

“They’re nice!” Tweek protests with a frown, “and they’re good tippers! And they don’t try and force me back into relationships before I’m ready!” His words are met with the Goth Kids lethargically saluting him with their coffee mugs – their smiles are faint but warm and Clyde is stunned at how much has changed in such little time.

He blinks and swallows down the lump forming in his throat; his eyes still sting as he shoves his fists into his pockets, his nails digging sharply into his palms.

“I-I’m sorry – I just… I miss you guys,” he says, ducking his head, “we’re best friends and we fell out ‘cause of someone else’s bullshit – who does that?”

Tweek sighs as he deflates behind the counter, “it’s not just about Kenny and Butters, Clyde. That whole fight opened up so many, _ah_ , nasty wounds for everyone and also showed how _some people’s_ priorities are totally messed up!”

“Being pissed ‘cause your friend got blinded in one eye is a messed-up priority?” Clyde questions, arching a brow. He still doesn’t get why Token and Tweek were quick to take Kenny’s side, ‘cause the way he sees it, the dude’s in the wrong. When he had told Bebe, she just kissed him and told him that shit would eventually get sorted out, ‘cause that’s how boys are. His older sister had said the same thing, but his dad, however, told him they were _all_ being fucking stupid for taking shit this far and to never bother him with such petty crap again. That being said, his dad’s been kinda weird since becoming a widow and thinks ‘falling out’ with your friends is the dumbest thing you could do, ‘cause then they could end up dying and then what would you be? A lonely, dumb dickhead, that’s what. Clyde ain’t lonely though, ‘cause he’s still got friends, but he wants _all_ his friends and to get them back, he kinda needs them to admit they were wrong for taking Kenny’s side.

Looking at their irritated expressions, he guesses he has a long way to go before that happens.

“You know what’s a messed-up priority?” Token throws back at him, threads of glimmering gold flickering across his face, “choosing to stay friends with Cartman ‘cause of his _hot mom_ despite the fact that the asshole _shot_ me. Staying friends with Kyle, despite the fact that he had a hand in blowing up Toronto, ‘cause you need a tutor in maths! Or even—”

“Dude, if you’re so mad about that shit then you should be on our side! ‘Cause we’re totally tired of having to _forgive_ and _forget_ every time we do fucked up shit to each other,” Clyde throws back, a small encouraging smile on his face; it quickly slips when Tweek simply sighs and glances at the ground, whereas Token’s expression hardens unforgivably.

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit on _Cartman_ thinking we need to start holding grudges, but hey. Nice to know you’ve _finally_ drawn the line,” the Cyborg says, but there’s a wounded glint in his glowing eyes which tells Clyde that he’s never really gotten over getting shot. It makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and his wings vibrate against his back in agitation as he realises just how badly he has misjudged Token’s reasoning for picking Kenny.

“I’m sorry he shot you,” he utters around a lump in his throat, but he clenches his fists and swallows it down, ‘cause he doesn’t want Token to know how devastated he feels, and he resolutely refuses to humiliate himself in front of the Goth Freaks.

“Why are _you_ apologising?” Token asks, looking truly clueless, “and why now? It happened seven years ago, dude, saying sorry doesn’t really make a difference.”

Clyde bites his lip and his wings strain against his clothes as he realises that he ain’t getting anywhere right now; Jimmy’s right – their friends _are_ stubborn assholes and he _shouldn’t_ have to be chasing after them like an abandoned puppy.

In hindsight, he thinks it may have been _Craig_ who said that to him instead.

Regardless, seeing Token look at him like _that_ and hearing the Goth Freaks mutter about him behind their overpriced black coffees ignites Clyde’s fight or flight instinct something fierce. He can’t fight, ‘cause everyone and their dog knows _not_ to fight inside Tweek’s coffeehouse, so help them god.

So, Clyde chooses flight – it’s something he’s pretty good at, anyways.

“Right. Got it,” he utters, ducking his head, “message received, loud and clear. But you should know that I still love you and I miss you, even if you’re totally fucking wrong!” he declares as he turns on his heel to storm out of the shop; he pauses as he opens the door and glares back at Token and Tweek, “ _assholes_!”

Then he slams the door behind him and tries to ignore how _final_ it sounds.

* * *

When Stan feels that familiar bite of darkness inside his mind, he often finds himself playing with Sparky’s old handkerchief – though his beloved friend had died two years prior, he still finds comfort in his sweet, pink accessory and makes the effort to take it with him whenever he leaves the house. He takes it with him to every test, every football game, every date he has with Wendy; it’s become a safety blanket of sorts and he only wishes that Sparky’s scent still lingered on the silky material.

The Gadgeteer rubs his thumb over the waning colour and sighs; honestly, this is pretty fucking pathetic. Sitting in his room alone to pine over his dumb best friend whilst playing with his dead dog’s bandana? Jesus Christ, he kinda wants to shoot himself out of shame alone.

“Stan!” his mom calls up, “Wendy’s here!”

“Okay mom; send her up!” he calls back, feeling slightly better with the knowledge that his girlfriend has come to visit. Honestly, he had been so stoked when his mom finally left his dumbass dad and moved back to South Park. He’s only visited the farm a handful of times since and not once has he regretted the decision to join his mom and Shelly in waving Tegridy- _fucking_ -Farms goodbye.

Firstly, he doesn’t have to get up at some bullshit hour to catch a bus to school.

Secondly, he’s living next to Kyle and all his friends again – granted, they’re not exactly _friends_ right now, but it’s still a bonus.

And thirdly—

“Hey Stan,” Wendy greets, slipping inside his room with a small smile.

—he’s close to _Wendy_ again.

The tension lingering in his shoulders immediately melts away as he tucks the handkerchief under his pillow – it’s not like he’s embarrassed to be caught like this, rather, Wendy knows he still has Sparky’s bandana and she knows he only messes with it when he’s upset and he doesn’t really want to worry her with his petty bullshit.

“Listening to NF again, huh?” she muses, throwing a fleeting glance to his phone which slowly pumps out the angry beats of NF’s _The Search_ ; most of his friends have learned to discern his moods by who he’s listening to, with NF being slightly low on the list of _Songs Stan Listens to When He Feels Fucked Up_ , with DEFCON 1 being— 

“At least it isn't Hollywood Undead,” he comments with a shrug, to which Wendy concedes with a short cant of her head ‘cause Hollywood Undead is saved for _special_ occasions, where his sadness gives way to indignant rage and someone has to haul his ass off to the junkyard to unleash his rage upon broken cars and abandoned ovens. 

“How’re you doing?” Wendy still asks, ‘cause she can probably sense his sad aura on his watch, or his clock, or some shit. Unlike his power over tools, Wendy’s powers as a Gadgeteer remain solely in being able to manipulate technology to a point, with her favourite trick being that she can hack into anyone’s phone and just blow the fucker up. She’s also super into setting off his alarm when it’s time for his medication, which is kinda helpful, if not _slightly_ annoying.

“I’m super,” Stan sighs tiredly, leaning against his pillow with a small smile, “thanks for asking.”

“Oh, really?” Wendy asks, arching a brow despite her amused smirk, “and what do you think Big Gay Al would say about repressing shit? Because sweetie,” she lisps impishly, “there’s plenty of things that can be buried deep in a body, but feelings aren’t one of them.”

“Don’t quote Mr Slave at me, I hate it when you do that.”

“Yeah, but you gotta admit,” Wendy hums whilst rocking on her heels, “it’s kinda crazy that one of the few voices of reason in this town is a gimp.”

“I think it makes perfect sense,” Stan replies, shifting aside to give Wendy room to sit on his bed. She doesn’t take the silent offer though; rather, she remains standing as she folds her arms and frowns at the far wall with a glazed look in her eyes.

The silence between them is oddly comfortable and Stan feels so blessed that Wendy isn’t the kinda person who constantly feels the urge to fill the silence up with bullshit noise; she likes to sink into the quiet and just soak up his presence, savouring the peace they have between them and simply enjoying their closeness. The silence, however, is sorta tainted by the worried tic in her lips and the tension which threads throughout her body.

Stan sits up straighter and reaches out to tug on her sleeve gently.

“You okay?” he asks lightly, ‘cause Wendy wields Mr Slave’s sayings like hidden daggers and never brings them out of her repertoire unless they’re totally necessary. Considering all the recent bullshit in his life, Stan doesn’t really need three guesses as to why she’s visiting him today.

“So, you know I love you and everything,” Wendy begins, which already has Stan’s heart slowly freezing in his chest, “which is why I’m here and not with _you know who_ , but are you really not going to _talk_ to them?”

“He picked his side,” Stan shrugs, pulling his knees to his chest to hide his face into them, “like dude, Kenny made a mistake, let it go!”

“Okay, but it’s just that,” Wendy pauses, sounding gently frustrated, “well, you finally acknowledged that you _like_ , liked Kyle and we almost finalised Operation Jersey Smush, but now you want to just throw it all away? Because of someone else’s relationship?”

“Well, kinda? I mean, he picked Cartman’s side, Wendy! He picked _Cartman_ over me— uh, _us_!” Stan protests, pinching the bridge of his nose out of frustration; like, Kyle is always so vocal about how much he _hates_ Cartman but then he goes and backs the fucker up? Logically, Stan knows Kenny fucked up, but everyone keeps making Butters out to be this innocent angel who desperately needs protecting but chances are, the dude probably fucking deserved it!

Which, _okay_.

Is a totally messed-up thing to think, ‘cause like.

 _Nobody_ deserves getting blinded, but Kenny probably didn’t intend to hurt Butters and again, chances are, Kenny only resorted to using the ninja stars out of desperation. When Professor Chaos comes out to play, he really gets into the act and Stan has an inkling that the dude probably forgets that at the end of the day, it’s _just_ a game.

Well, _most_ of the time, it’s just a game.

Besides, if Kyle can’t give _Kenny_ a second chance, then what are the odds of _Stan_ getting another chance the next time he fucks up? ‘Cause it’s inevitable that he _will_ screw shit up by being too depressed, or too drunk, or too caught up in trying to save dying animals and _maybe_ that will be the last straw for Kyle. Fuck, it just hurts too much to even consider…

“But it’s not really Cartman’s side,” Wendy argues, gazing down at him with softly beseeching eyes, “it’s Butters’ side? And would Butters even _want_ him on his side? I just— why are we even picking sides? It’s not our relationship! We’re friends with _both_ Kenny and Butters,” Wendy says, throwing her hands up despairingly, “we don’t need to choose one!”

“Kyle chose one, which meant we needed to pick one. Besides, say _Bebe_ threw a shuriken into Red’s eye,” Stan hypothesises, arching a brow at Wendy knowingly, “can you _honestly_ say they wouldn’t force you to pick a side? That they wouldn’t be pissed at you for sitting on the fence?”

“Well, that wouldn’t happen because they know better than to mess around with real weapons,” Wendy says, waving her hand in the air as if waving away the very idea; she then gazes at him with an unreadable expression and sighs, “that being said, I’m not entirely sure I would be able to _not_ pick the victim’s side…”

“So, you’re on Cartman’s side?”

“I’m on no one’s side,” Wendy corrects softly, though her eyes are full of conflict, “I’m just saying – like, what if _I_ threw a shuriken into your eye?”

“No offense, but you wouldn’t do that to me,” Stan says with utter certainty; Wendy’s violent side is a rare sight to behold and he knows that no matter how frustrating he can be to date and love, she would _never_ project it at him.

“Pretty sure Butters hadn’t expected Kenny to hurt him like that either,” Wendy throws back with an arched brow.

“Yeah well…” Stan trails off, ‘cause Wendy is making perfect sense and he hates it, “I don’t know. It’s just. Look, Kenny’s really fucked up over what happened and yeah, it _is_ fucked up what happened, but… I don’t want Kenny to just become this fucking pariah.” Stan doesn’t want Kenny to be marred as this violent, abusive asshole ‘cause he knows how hard his friend has worked to shed the labels which hang over his parents. Kenny isn’t like Stuart or Carol, and Stan won’t sit back and allow anyone to tar him with the same brush; it had been an accident and even though he feels bad for Butters, he can’t just abandon Kenny either, “he doesn’t deserve it. Besides, we’ve all done fucked up shit to each other and gotten over it, why does this instance get to be special?”

“Because Butters _loves_ Kenny,” Wendy says, her voice growing strained; she’s getting a little too invested into a situation she’s apparently washed her hands of, “can you honestly tell, look me in the eye and tell me, that if _Kyle_ hurt you so badly that it blinded you, destroyed your trust in him and had you shipped off outta town, that you wouldn’t be even the _slightest_ bit miffed?”

“Well, it depends.”

“On what?

“On what _miffed_ means.”

“Stop playing dumb, I hate it when you do that.”

Stan can only smile sweetly at her, ‘cause he knows how much it irritates her when he plays into the ‘book-dumb’ reputation he has. Granted, he’s not exactly Kyle-levels of intelligent, but he’s not a total fucking idiot either. It’s not like he’s street-smart like Kenny too, but he’s like, _emotionally_ -smart, which probably explains why he’s so invested in defending Kenny. Shit, having a super sense of empathy is better than nothing, he supposes.

“Well, I hate it when you throw logic at me,” he says to her, “besides me and Kyle? We’re super different from Butters and Kenny. Like, _mega_ different, I don’t know how to explain it properly, dude. I mean, yeah, it would be super weak to get blinded by Kenny’s cheap-ass ninja stars, but I’m pretty sure I’ve reached simp-level status when it comes to Kyle now, so I’m biased as hell. Fuck, ask me something else.”

“Stan, the word _simp_ is—” Wendy begins with a sigh, but Stan is well ahead of her.

“—problematic, yeah I know, but it’s also pretty fucking accurate, don’t you think?”

“I was going to say that it’s also applicable to how Kenny and Butters feel about each other, but it’s nice to see a degree of self-awareness for once,” Wendy teases wryly.

“Please be nice to me, I’m sad.”

“I’m always nice to you,” Wendy says before she nudges at him playfully, “and you’re always sad.”

Stan simply sticks his tongue out at his fellow Gadgeteer, ‘cause what she’s said isn’t exactly _false_ , but that doesn’t mean it needs to be _said_.

“So, did you just come around to berate me for picking a side?” he asks, cocking his head at her as he tries to keep his tone accusation-free and neutral; he doesn’t think he has the energy to have a proper fight with Wendy, not after having a fight with Kyle too. Judging by Wendy’s tired expression, it seems she doesn’t exactly have the energy to spare either.

“I don’t mean to berate you – also, good word use, babe, I’m proud of you – it’s just. Picking sides is. It’s like….” she trails off before she sighs and throws herself onto his bed, “goddammit, I like them, and we were _so_ close to having them.”

Stan deflates too and slumps down next to her, staring at his hands with a slight frown, “I like him too, but... we gotta just put that aside for now and deal with _this_ civil war shit first.”

“Do we have to? Can’t we just _talk_ to Kyle?” Wendy persists, ‘cause ever since she discovered her feelings for Kyle and realised that Stan loved him too, she’s been like a shark who’s scented blood. She’s scarily determined to woo Kyle and even created a five-step program to lure him into their clutches. They had reached _Step One: Convince Stan this is a Good Idea_ when everything went to shit, “we’re practically adults now! Surely, we can just go to them as _Wendy_ and _Stan_ and talk to them? Do we have to fight it out ‘cause of what happened to someone else?”

“You know Wendy, I honestly don’t think we have a choice.”

“We _always_ get to have a choice.”

Stan just shrugs, ‘cause honestly, they _really_ don’t. Kenny might’ve pissed off Butters, but Stan just knows that it’ll be _Chaos_ who gets revenge. And if Chaos makes an appearance, then he’s got an obligation to kick some Elementalist ass as a Freedom Pal. He doesn’t tell Wendy that though, ‘cause he knows that on some level, she knows _she_ doesn’t really have a choice either – if Stan gets into a fight, then Wendy will want to be there to support him.

And if _Kyle_ gets into the fight too?

Well, it’s just a given that they’ll all just have to dive in together.

But that’s Future Stan’s problem. For now, he doesn’t have to worry about fights or sides or stupid fucking shurikens. For now, all he has to do is hang out with his girlfriend and pine uselessly over his best friend since birth. He sighs as he shifts to lie across her body, resting his head gently against her stomach and shifting up until his ear settles against her steady heartbeat – he stretches, closes his eyes and almost purrs when he feels her long nails dive into his oily hair and is once again overwhelmed with impossible amounts of affection for her. She’s seen all his ugly bits and yet she still wants him – the prettiest, smartest person in town and she wants _him_. Well, and Kyle, but that doesn’t really count, ‘cause he _also_ wants Kyle. Privately, Stan snorts because he’s never really considered himself to have _a type_ , but then Kyle is pretty much a red-headed version of Wendy – fierce, intelligent, driven, a complete mystery to binary genders, and really, _really_ fucking hot.

He sighs as he imagines himself as the sweet centre to that tasty sandwich and leans further into Wendy’s touch. Inwardly, Stan’s always felt selfishly greedy, wanting to have his best friend cake and eat it with his girlfriend too, but now he just feels… fucking _sad_. Like, this holy grail of dreams had been so close to existing in his life but then a single shuriken had to snatch it all away.

Wetting his dry lips, Stan cracks his eyes open and lazily scans his room for a distraction from his bitter thoughts – it’s too early to be this dark and his heart flutters when he catches sight of his Playstation 4. It’s been a while since he’s just messed around aimlessly with Wendy, but he figures after all the recent drama, they deserve to rot their brains for a hot-ass second.

“Hey,” he says, reaching down and throwing Wendy a controller, “wanna play some Tekken?”

Wendy grins as she catches it easily and nods, “best two outta three? Loser buys pizza?”

“You’re on!”

* * *

The costume is black.

It’s like, the _only_ thing he can compute for now.

The costume is pitch black, bar the stylised red ‘S’ sewn across the chest – Bebe’s created the whole thing from a spandex-Kevlar blend, with loose cotton in the joints for easy maneuvering, whilst adding in a layer of sturdy rubber and thermal padding, for, well.

 _Just in case_ scenarios.

It makes Craig _look_ physically stronger, ‘cause whilst he is a Brutalist, he really doesn’t _look_ like one underneath his clothes; the other Brutalists do, to some degree – Scott is broad with muscle and even Kenny is whip-cord lean, but not skinny bitch Craig. The costume would make Craig look like… well, a discount variation of Batman.

And not the Christian Bale kind, either.

“It has a six-pack,” he says flatly, raising a brow as he skims a finger across the fake muscles. Craig doesn’t have a six-pack, he barely has a _one_ pack, he’s just… nothing. He’s all unassuming and flat. Though he does kinda enjoy the advantage he has over dickhead-villains who underestimate him; no way would he ever get that treatment now with these fake-ass muscles on full display.

“You’re strong Craig,” Bebe says brightly, handing him combat trousers and army boots, “own it.”

Craig sniffs at the boots, “I don’t know,” he drawls, rocking backward on his ten-year-old Vans, “this seems more Mysterion’s gig.”

“Mysterion doesn’t have the monopoly on army boots,” Bebe says, before she rolls her eyes, “not _black_ ones anyway – he always gets Karen to paint them purple to fit his whole _aesthetic_.”

Craig snorts and shakes his head.

Dude is _such_ a dramatic fucker.

“Speaking of which,” Bebe drawls slowly, her eyes alight with fervor, “Clyde and Wendy told me a little bit about you guys falling out, but they didn’t exactly tell me what you fell out over – wanna give a gal a hint?”

“Kenny’s the reason Butters’ eye is all fucked up – dude went too far during a clash they had and left Butters half-blind,” Craig says openly, leaning against her workbench with pursed lips, “Cartman blew up at him, Kenny got defensive, we all ended up taking sides. It’s kinda weird that we ended up gravitating towards the same bullshit superhero groups we made when we were ten, but whatever, who doesn’t love a remake? Anyway, there’s probably more to it, but that’s the gist of this shit.”

Bebe blinks, her lips agape in shock, “and you took Cartman’s side?”

Craig shakes his head, “I took _Butters’_ side – it’s just an unfortunate coincidence that it ended up being Cartman’s side too.” If anything, it should be more shocking that he took the side of a _villain_ , considering how concerned Bebe had been about his morals yesterday – but like, villain or not Butters hadn’t deserved that shit. That being said, and contrary to _some_ people’s fucking beliefs, Craig ain’t about to drop _all_ his morals for the guy. Although, it would be pretty funny to see the look on Tweek’s face should he actually go rogue…

Clyde might cry though and that’s _never_ fun.

“Oh,” Bebe says, cocking her head, “and I guess Tweek took Kenny’s side?”

Craig nods, ‘cause he doesn’t really want to go into the whole _Tweek-taking-Kenny’s-side_ thing.

It’s just exhausting.

Bebe seems to pick up on his reluctance as she only nods with a thoughtful look on her face. She looks like she’s considering saying something to him, but then she shakes her head and sighs shortly.

“Honestly, and you guys think us girls are all about the drama and politics,” she says lightly, and Craig notes that for once, her tone is judgment-free, “like, full offense, but boys are more like girls than you think. You’re all hot messes.”

Craig shrugs, before he gives her a wry look, “I don’t think Wendy and Kyle would appreciate your narrow-minded, binary views on gender.”

“Oh, shut up, you _know_ what I mean and _they_ would too,” Bebe pouts, her eyebrows knitting together with threads of annoyance and worry, “Wendy’s already told me that she accepts female pronouns _and_ that Kyle accepts male ones too – don’t make it me out to be a bigot!”

Craig takes a subtle step back, his eyes widening as he takes in Bebe’s words.

“Dude, chill out,” he says uncertainly, “it was just a joke.”

Bebe blinks and her eyes lose that irritated edge; her tense body slowly deflates as she leans away from him, sighing heavily before averting her gaze.

“Sorry,” she says stiffly, folding her arms across her chest, “I just— Wendy went through a lot of shit, like a _supreme_ amount of shit, when she came out three years ago. Like, our school is full of two-faced, back-stabbing bitches, who knew right? I guess it’s just instinct to go on the defensive now.”

Craig nods easily, ‘cause his dad pretty much has the same instinct as her; South Park is pretty liberal, given that it’s a shitty redneck mountain town, but there’s still the odd homophobic prick who doesn’t know how to keep their mouth shut in Skeeter’s Bar. His dad used to defend him with his fists first, but since his mom ragged on him for the hefty hospital bills, he’s started using his loud as fuck voice instead. It’s pretty embarrassing, but kinda cool too.

“It’s fine,” he says, but she still looks unsettled and Craig feels irritatingly obliged to cheer her up. He doesn’t really know what to do, but he doesn’t think a hug will cut it; Craig sighs as Bebe frowns deeply at the ground and he glances up at the costume with a furrowed brow.

Well.

When all else fails, might as well congratulate Bebe on what she does best.

“You know something? I like it,” Craig says, his concerned frown melting into a warm, genuine smile. She looks up at him in surprise, but his smile only grows – it’s taken him a while, but he _likes_ Bebe and kinda considers her to be one of the cooler girls in town, especially since working with her on his superhero shit. It helps that she’s grown up a lot and actually treats Clyde with proper respect now, “the costume, I mean. Good job, Bebe.”

She blinks at the praise and gazes at him oddly, before a small hesitant smile quirks on her lips. The lingering tension from before has vanished and Craig feels relieved that it’s fucked off.

“Y’know, everyone always talks about how dark and cold you are, like a real tough guy,” she says, snickering to herself as she tilts her head, “but you’re actually a marshmallow, aren’t you? Like, all toasted and gooey inside.”

Craig snorts and shrugs, “just don’t go telling everyone – I have a reputation to maintain.”

“He says,” Bebe rolls her eyes dramatically as she pokes at his chest playfully, “despite the fact that he goes around being _sweet_ and _empathetic_ , adopting loners and cheering up sad girls.”

“I don’t _adopt_ loners—”

“Yeah, apart from Clyde, when that bully pushed him over when you were both three—”

“His crying was irritating me—”

“And Token, when no one else wanted to play with the rich kid—”

“He had a fucking X-Box, why wouldn’t I take advantage of that—”

“And Jimmy… although he’s never been a loner and I think you actually _stole_ him from Stan—”

“Actually, _Clyde_ stole him, but hey, fuck you—”

“Oh, then there’s Thomas, who let you wash his clothes, you dumb flirt—”

“It’s a great stress-reliever Bebe, suck my—”

“And then there’s Tweek—”

“I _didn’t_ adopt him, I just got the shit beaten outta me instead,” Craig snorts, interjecting Bebe with fond amusement, ‘cause shit. Getting tricked into beating the crap outta each other probably hadn’t been the healthiest foundation for a relationship, but fuck it, what _is_ healthy in South Park? Besides, that first punch had been the thing which had drawn Craig to Tweek in the first place – the second the blond landed a blow to his face, Craig had been a total fucking goner.

He ended up going home and telling Tricia that he was gonna get married to Tweek, so she better start preparing a kick-ass speech.

Which.

Well. Ended up being a waste of fucking time and he sincerely hoped Tricia hadn’t actually started writing the damn thing, although knowing his sister, she’s probably already written a damn biography for him.

“Oooh, so it was love at first _fight_ , huh?” Bebe grins, her eyes sparkling as she waggled her brows; god, no wonder her and Clyde are total soulmates, “this is so cute – like, bodacious bad boy exterior, but with a smitten softie centre, huh? I figured you’d be all _feelings make you weak_ , like our other resident dark hero.”

“Never said they were a weakness,” Craig says, ‘cause it’s true. Loving Tweek never made him feel vulnerable or soft – it made him feel pretty fucking powerful, in all actuality, “they’re just… messy.”

“Thought you _liked_ messy?”

“Tweek isn’t messy,” Craig snaps back quickly.

Bebe arches a brow and holds up her hands, “who says I’m talking about Tweek?”

Craig narrows his eyes at her.

“Okay, so maybe I _am_ talking about Tweek,” Bebe concedes, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, “which is a super bitchy thing to do now that I think about it. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever – his _priorities_ are a little messy, I’ll give you that,” Craig says, crossing his arms, “dude just upped and forgave Kenny on behalf of someone else, doesn’t make any sense. It’s not like it was _his_ eye that got sliced, so I don’t know why he’s fucking mad at me for calling the dick out on— nope, I’m not doing this shit. I am _not_ doing this.”

“No babe, you’re definitely not,” Bebe says, nodding with a little smirk on her face.

“I’m not,” Craig enforces.

Bebe merely hums in agreement as she picks up one of Craig’s new gloves, running her thumb over the reinforced knuckles. She had made them to be breathable, to allow the hot smoke to pass through from skin to target easily – she’s also offered to pad them out with knuckle-dusters to give his punches an extra kick. Craig has to admit, Bebe’s pretty talented as a seamstress and will probably rock when she rolls up to the Fashion Institute of Technology in a couple years’ time.

Still, there’s talent and then there’s _power-enhanced_ talent.

Craig can’t quite tell which one Bebe really is.

“Hey,” he asks, cocking his head at her, “you sure you don’t have any powers?”

Bebe snorts as she rolls her eyes and glances at the costume on the mannequin, “no powers – sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m a total normie.”

Craig scoffs, ‘cause he’s pretty sure that _no one_ who grows up in South Park can be considered _normal_ , powers or no powers. He reaches out and brushes a bare finger against the supple padding of his costume and tries to imagine himself wearing it; it’s almost embarrassing how he can’t quite envision this badass outfit on his underwhelming body. To him, it’s like Tricia trying on their mom’s dresses – they’re too big and mature and she’s not ready to fill them out just yet.

This costume is a giant leap from a comfy hoodie and skinny jeans, but _maybe_ it’s what he needs right now.

A giant leap from the past.

A total fresh start.

Just something _new_ to herald in his next stage in life.

“You gonna change your dumb name too?” Bebe asks teasingly, poking him in the cheek.

“Fuck off Bebe,” Craig snorts.

Not _that_ new.


	3. Therapy Wars

The next time Craig sees Tempest post-breakup, it’s a total accident.

Coon and Friends have been called out to a bank robbery, only to find that Freedom Pals have beaten them to the punch – pardon the lame-ass pun. Craig can barely restrain himself from walking away the moment he sees the pyjama pricks striking a pose outside the building; the cops have rolled up, the thieves have been caught and now Toolshed is dealing with the press, milking the fame for all it’s worth.

They look tired as fuck, but they’re still managing to radiate a shitty smug aura.

Fucking assholes.

Mysterion lingers in the background, speaking to Sergeant Yates with a tight frown on his face – it’s Mysterion who spots them first and it’s Mysterion who alerts the others to their presence. He excuses himself for his conversation with Yates and strides up to The Coon with his fists hanging loosely by his sides. He prowls towards them with a steady gate, unthreatening and almost cocky; Craig feels his hackles raise and a brief glance at The Coon tells him that he’s not the only one irked by Mysterion’s attitude.

“You’re too slow, Coon and Friends,” he calls out in a deep, rolling burr; his voice is slightly strained though and Craig wonders if the guy’s discovered that Butters has been sent outta town yet, “I’d offer you the chance to act as cleaning crew, but even they were quicker to arrive.” The joke falls flat, as does most of Mysterion’s playful taunts, seeing as the asshole refuses to emote like a normal human when he dons the cowl. Which must be saying something if Craig’s noticed that shit.

“Damn Fastpass, you must be slipping,” Tupperware joins in, his dark brown eyes completely covered by a sheen of softly shimmering bronze. His thick armour covers his body seamlessly, with gold veins flickering across the dark blue surface; his gauntlets aren’t exactly poised for attack, but Craig can see that Tupperware has summoned his gun loaded with stunning missiles, just in case.

“Fuh-fuh-fuck you, Freedom Pussies,” Fastpass retorts, his whole body vibrating with barely restrained energy, and Craig knows the Speedster is seconds away from wrapping his crutches around the throats of the shitty pricks before them.

“Strong words – wouldn’t recommend using them whilst in your position,” Mysterion warns, folding his arms as his eyes begin to glint threateningly, “you’re not _exactly_ a formidable force, are you?”

“Oh, fuck you, asshole,” The Coon bites out, crossing his arms as he scowls, “like you can talk! Your lame boyband ain’t shit without The Doctor – wherever the fuck _he_ is!”

“Dude, he’s interning at some biomedical science school, he doesn’t have time to play superhero right now,” Toolshed replies with a roll of his eyes, “he’s probably curing cancer or AIDs or whatever.”

“Oh shit, did you hear that Super Guy?” The Coon says with a wicked smirk, turning over his shoulder to peer at Craig.

“Say one more word to me and I’ll break your goddamn nose,” he replies blandly, not remotely in the mood to even tolerate The Coon’s usual bullshit taunting. Especially when the spotlight is now on him and Tempest finally looks at him like he’s just realised that Craig fucking exists.

“Come on fellow heroes, we’re supposed to be a united force, especially before our foes!” Captain Diabetes chides them both, but as per usual, he’s completely ignored.

“S-Super Guy?” Tempest utters, his glowing blue eyes scanning Craig’s body with an unreadable expression. Craig has to tear his gaze away as he tries to shrug off the attention; he had enough of it when he arrived at the Coon and Friends headquarters earlier, with Fastpass whistling at him as Mosquito persuaded him to spin in place several times to check him out.

Now, with Freedom Pals staring at him, Craig has the unbearable urge to just tear his skin off.

“Take a picture,” he drawls, shifting as the silence stretches, “it’ll last longer.”

“You… you changed your costume,” Tempest says, twitching with a frown – Craig’s gotten pretty good at discerning the differences in Tweek’s tics and _fuck_ , is his ex-boyfriend pretty fucking annoyed.

He shrugs, “what’s the point in matching anymore?”

Tempest’s eyes flash threateningly; lightning and hail warring in his gorgeous eyes as the wind picks up around them. Craig tenses and finds himself oddly unaffected by the change in weather – he’s not cold, he can’t feel the tingle of oncoming electricity; in fact, he can barely taste the ozone in the air and he has to wonder what, exactly, Bebe has done to his costume.

“What? What’s the point in, _nngh_ , matching?” Tempest demands, fists clenched as sparks fly from his body, “are you fucking _kidding_ me, man?”

“Dude, why’d you have to go and say that?” Mosquito complains in a reedy whine behind him.

“Yeah, dick move, SG,” Tupperware agrees, shaking his head with clear disappointment.

“I invite you all to _suck_ my dick,” Craig deadpans.

“Sorry, dude,” Toolshed grins roguishly, “my mom taught me not to put small things in my mouth.”

“Oh, fuck you, you asshole—”

“When did this, _ah_ , happen?” Tempest cuts across them, gesturing to Craig’s body with flailing hands. Craig’s irritation towards Toolshed is quickly tempered by the sudden urge to tease Tempest and rile him up; he’s kinda enjoying the reaction his costume has had on his ex and inwardly, he wants to see how far he can push him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy,” he snorts, reluctantly meeting Mosquito’s gleeful high-five with a small smirk.

Tempest’s eye twitches as he clutches the front of his blue hoodie, “did you just,” he utters out behind gritted teeth, “quote a fucking [_Vine_](https://r.search.yahoo.com/_ylt=AwrDQ2qoPFFftX8AzaT7w8QF;_ylu=X3oDMTBzcTlnazAzBHNlYwNjZC1hdHRyBHNsawNzb3VyY2UEdnRpZAM-/RV=2/RE=1599188264/RO=10/RU=https%3a%2f%2fwww.youtube.com%2fwatch%3fv%3dehH9OQMQXIk/RK=2/RS=Tpu0hghUEBLW0OH90eKDA_LCquk-) at me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Craig repeats with vicious enunciation, “ _weather boy_.”

The Elementalist growls before he visibly restrains himself; he clenches his eyes shut and takes several breathes before he mutters, “no, I am not rising to this,” his body is still tense, strung out like a tight rope and Craig’s idly interested in making him snap, “I am going to conquer anger with non-anger, conquer meanness with generosity, conquer dishonesty with—”

“How about you conquer being an irritating mess with chilling your tits for once?” Craig snidely interjects Tempest’s chanting, rolling his eyes.

“Fuck you, Super Douche!” the Elementalist shrieks, his eyes flashing open with white-hot fury, “fuck you and your new costume!” Dang, dude didn’t conquer _shit_ , “it looks tacky as hell and you _wish_ you had a six-pack!”

“Hey! Leave The Seamstress outta this!” Mosquito says defensively, his wings fluttering with agitation; Craig’s skin crawls when he spies the small army of insects collecting around his form and has to resist gagging at the sight of all their tiny scurrying bodies.

“See, this is why you can’t have Stripe,” the Brutalist says, forcing his gaze back to Tempest with a sharp, mean smirk on his lips, “you’re just too much of a bad influence, dude.”

“ _I’m_ a, _nngh_ , bad influence!” Tempest snarls out, ice coating his fists as he begins to levitate off the ground; a bitter wind swirls around them and The Human Kite is quick to combat it with his own gentle, warm breezes.

“Yeah dude,” Mosquito chips in, his wings fluttering against the warring gusts, “you ain’t getting Craig’s gerbil—”

“Guinea pig.”

“—guinea pig, so suck it!”

“Oh, I’ll give you something to _suck_ , Mosquito,” Tempest growls, summoning sharp icicles above his head and pointing them threateningly towards Craig and Mosquito. Instinctively, the insects around Mosquito’s body take flight, eager to protect their master from getting hurt.

Or maybe they’ve been conditioned to get excited by the word ‘ _suck’_.

“Kuh-kuh-kinky,” Fastpass remarks to Tempest, his smile slipping quickly from his face as an icy missile is suddenly sent hurtling towards him; he dashes out of the way with a dark curse, quickly missing the explosion of snow and frost as the icicle collides with the road.

“Well shit,” Craig mutters as The Coon suddenly rears up, his tail fluffed threateningly as his ears prick forward.

“Fuck you, dicks!” he snarls, brandishing his nails threatening, “Coon and Friends, we’re under attack! Let’s show these assholes who they’re _really_ dealing with!”

Craig sighs when his fellow heroes leap into action at the command and it’s suddenly as if _no one_ fucking remembers they’re outside the bank with the goddamn media just across the street, watching with greedy eyes as they hold their cameras up high. That being said, superheroes being super stupid is pretty standard for South Park and what really seals the deal is that he’s pretty sure Sergeant Yates is setting up a spontaneous betting pool. God, he would just _love_ to show Mysterion up in front of his new badge-wielding BFF; fuck, the dude has _way_ too much tolerance for racist assholes.

But that’s not his problem, so Craig cracks his fingers as he pins Tempest with a dry glare, beckoning the Elementalist over with a jut of his chin; normally, he’d let Kite deal with Tempest, seeing as they’re the only one who can really battle against the ice and lightning, but everyone seems to be giving him and his ex a pretty wide berth. In fact, no one is even looking at them, never mind actually venturing near them.

Besides, Kite seems pretty hellbent on teaching Toolshed a lesson – the wind Elementalist flies after the Gadgeteer with an inhuman shriek, lasers shooting out of their eyes with wild abandon as their target desperately flings screwdrivers back at them, curses falling freely from his lips.

The Coon’s occupied with Mysterion, fists and claws flying as they exchange bitter insults and acrid threats; the Hybrid’s been taking this shit particularly badly, or at least, that’s what Kite had told him, so Craig isn’t surprised when The Coon attacks Mysterion with unadulterated aggression. On the other hand, Fastpass and Mosquito are practically _playing_ with Tupperware, with Fastpass running circles around the Cyborg to distract him, giving Mosquito the chance to attack with his creepy critter army.

Captain Diabetes is busy chiding Sergeant Yates for gambling and taking bribes from the public; he sees it as highly unheroic, despite the fact that being corrupt is pretty on-brand for South Park cops.

Craig sighs at the utter mess of their friendship group before he returns his attention to his righteously furious ex-boyfriend.

“Take this, jerk!” Tempest snarls as he calls down strikes of lightning upon the Brutalist. The flashes of purple-tinted energy are sent soaring through the air, trapping Craig in a cage of crackling electricity. Or rather, it ought to have been shocking, ‘cause he can barely feel the familiar sharp sting of Tempest’s attack; the energy has been muted somehow and instead of hurting Craig, the lightning simply feels warm and heavy against him.

“Holy shit, babe,” he calls out, his tone thick and taunting as he watches small purple sparks dance across his costume, “I can’t tell if you’re slipping or if Seamstress pulled out all the stops on this suit, ‘cause that barely _tickled_.”

“Screw you, Super Dick!” Tempest growls, his eyes flashing attractively; fuck it, he’s gotta stop checking his ex out during battle, it’ll only get him killed, “I’m gonna rip that suit to shreds!”

“Dude!” Fastpass gasps, adopting a scandalised tone as he runs circles around Tempest, knocking the Elementalist off-balance and ruining the aim of his lightning attack, “in _public_?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Tempest chants, flicking his wrist out to manifest large icicles in the air before unleashing them upon the Speedster and the Brutalist below him. Shit, he really should’ve just called Kite over, ‘cause he can’t do shit with Tempest so far away from him. He could use his eyes, but he usually saves them as a last resort ‘cause he isn’t that good at controlling their intensity just yet. He doesn’t know what he would do if he ended up _killing_ his ex-boyfriend, fuck.

What a goddamn _mess_.

“Wow, I’m so glad I came out to join you guys, ‘cause this is _so_ much fun. Spoiler alert: I’m actually lying ‘cause this isn’t fun in the slightest,” Craig sighs, panting lightly as he ducks behind a mailbox, wincing when the sounds of crashing ice and hail ring in his ears, “seriously dude, just give me the laptop and we can all move on with our lives.”

“No! Why should I give you the laptop back when you refuse to give me Stripe?” Tempest counters as purple electricity dances across his body and gathers in his clenched fists. Craig snarls at the _fucking_ audacity of Tempest and stands up from behind the mailbox with his eyes burning with blue heat.

“Because it has my midterm fucking assignment on it!” he bites back, uncaring of the carnage taking place around him and uncaring if his side is actually winning or not. ‘Cause this bitch right here is honestly fucking with his future and he doesn’t give a fuck how hot his ex is, he needs his goddamn laptop back!

“Oh?” Tempest cocks his head mockingly, his tone condescendingly thoughtful, “you mean your assignment on _how to be a bad and unsupportive boyfriend_?” He sends down another wave of ice and Craig can’t dodge this attack in time; he winces with a half-choked growl as freezing pain races across his arms and chest. He glances down and frowns heavily when he sees the shredded, frostbitten material; goddammit, Bebe is gonna be _super_ fucking pissed now.

“No!” he snaps, glaring up at the Elementalist, “it’s the assignment on _how to deal with your boyfriend walking out on you_!”

“I did _not_ walk out on you!”

“Yes, you did!”

“Holy shit dudes, is this really the time or the place?” Toolshed asks in sheer disbelief, dodging Kite’s lasers with an effortless backward roll. Craig shoots him an irritated look when the Gadgeteer glances across the street with an incredulous look, “Jesus Christ Coon, are you eating popcorn?”

“Dude, there’s literally nothing on Netflix right now which could beat this shit,” The Coon says between messy mouthfuls, grinning when he neatly dodges Mysterion’s punch; it’s honestly awe-inspiring how The Coon can multitask eating _and_ clawing the shit outta an eldritch abomination, “and it’s _The_ Coon, Tool _shit_!”

“Oh wow,” Toolshed remarks dryly, his voice breathy and strained as he continues to avoid Kite’s attacks, “you really got me there – that was a real zinger, dude.”

“Hey asshole, our friends’ love lives are not entertainment!” Kite bites out angrily, swooping down to chase after Toolshed with alarming determination.

“Yeah, they don’t exist for you to just gawp at!” Tupperware scolds, lifting up his gauntlet to send waves of shocking electricity towards the Hybrid; The Coon barely arches a brow before Fastpass suddenly grabs him and moves him to safety. It’s alarming how Fastpass barely flinches at The Coon’s weight but, Craig supposes, the guy’s impressive biceps aren’t just for show. The Speedster has timed his move well, ‘cause Tupperware’s attack completely misses his intended target and instead lands upon Mysterion who, at the same time, made an attempt to punch The Coon again.

Craig feels a modicum of satisfaction at seeing the Netherborn curled up on the floor and convulsing with volts of electricity coursing through his veins; he’s also slightly concerned ‘cause he doesn’t remember when being a superhero ceased being a game with pretend attacks and started being their actual lives with a real sense of danger.

For the first time since donning a domino-mask, uncertainty flickers in his gut.

“No, apparently they exist for us to fall out over instead,” Toolshed mutters, staring up at The Human Kite with an unreadable expression; it has Kite stalling for a second, their cheeks glowing from exertion or feelings or whatever-the-fuck, before they growl and send down hot lasers upon their ex-SBF.

Jesus Christ, Craig is so done with everything, ‘cause this whole situation has been dragged out longer than it has any business being. He closes his eyes and feels his irritation, his hate and rage simmer within his body and directs that energy towards his hands, until it manifests as sizzling smoke in his palms; he curls his fingers tightly inwards and is mildly surprised that heat prickles but no longer scalds him. Whatever Bebe’s done to reinforce the gloves has saved his skin from second-degree burns again and Craig smirks as he lifts up his hands and flips off every Freedom Pal before him.

Copious waves of heat are sent soaring from his hands towards the superheroes, with red-tinted steam flying through the street and burning up all it touches. The Freedom Pals are quick to hide behind shields of cars, trashcans and mailboxes; Craig can’t quite control the boiling steam which erupts from his hands, but he does try his best to aim away from his fellow Coon and Friends.

The attack leaves the street misty with thick coils of heat, the chorus of car alarms ringing throughout the air. Craig feels satisfaction coarse within his veins as clusters of fire cling to scattered debris – he can spy the blurred forms of the Freedom Pals as Mysterion calls out for a strategic retreat, his purple eyes glowing through the settling fog. They clearly don’t have the energy to continue this fight and Mysterion’s pride is not as great as his concern for his fellow teammates. Besides, Craig’s kinda glad they’re fucking off too – it’s not often he uses such an attack, as it leaves him drained for several days and he finds himself losing the dexterity in his fingers for just as long, but when he does use it… _well_.

It’s a sign that he’s not _just_ a Brutalist and he’s always wondered if his extra set of powers have manifested thanks to his Peruvian heritage; it certainly explains his eyes, but he only pulls that shit out as a last resort. Either way, unleashing his inner rage is _not_ a pretty attack and it’s kinda hard to fight against, so he’s not surprised when he sees his rivals scurrying away with dark curses dripping from their tongues. Still, not even his _allies_ really enjoy it when he brings that move out of his arsenal and it kinda just leaves everyone being pissed off at him.

“Can we not burn up the avenue again?” Fastpass complains, zipping to Craig’s side with a small frown, “my duh-duh-dad’s complaining about the fuh-fire department being called out, very much.”

“It got rid of those assholes, didn’t I?” Craig arches a brow tiredly, flexing his aching fingers. Fastpass’ snide reply is drowned out by Mosquito’s victorious _whoop_ ; the Hybrid does a tiny loop in the air before he descends upon Craig and Fastpass with an excited buzz.

“Damn, they didn’t even give us a challenge!” he trills, sending his tiny army of insects away with a little wave; he lands in front of Craig with a breathless smile, his wings fluttering as he bounces on the balls of his feet, “so much for their ‘ _hey, we’re a buncha small-dicked assholes and we’re better than you too_ ’ attitudes from before, huh? Now who’s superior!”

Craig snorts when Fastpass meets Mosquito’s high-five with a whooping cheer; it’s funny how no one points out how clearly exhausted the Freedom Pals had been before their fight had started. Must’ve been some pretty badass bank robbers. He’s about to burst their happy bubble when the back of his neck prickles with the sensation of being watched; Craig turns to find The Coon joining them whilst Kite kept to the air to keep an eye on the retreating Freedom Pals.

“Yeah, not gonna lie guys, I kinda thought Coon and Friends would be pretty much fucked when Stray up and left us without a fucking warning, but I guess with The Doctor outta commission, we’re on a level playing field again,” The Coon snorts bitterly. Craig kinda gets it, ‘cause even though Stray had been obnoxiously mute, he had somehow gotten pretty close to them. It had helped, having a fisticuffs type of hero by his side; it had helped stem the feelings of inferiority, being surrounded by higher-class supers. And yeah, Stray eventually mastered time travel and yeah, despite the fact that Stray’s talents were more Assassin than Brutalist, Craig still appreciated their style and friendship. But as with most things in his life, and in their town especially, good things always come to an eventual fucking end.

Stray just fucking _left_ South Park one day, leaving nothing behind but a pair of cat ears and the broken heart of Captain Diabetes.

The whole sorry situation kinda has Craig feeling blessed, ‘cause whilst Tweek walked out on him, at least he’s still in South Park. Craig’s not sure what he would do if his ex-boyfriend just… _disappeared_ out of his life altogether; he’s not ready for such a notion.

“We never really needed them anyway,” Craig lies smoothly, “dude spent most of their time hallucinating Morgan Freeman and leading Captain Diabetes on.” Deep, deep down, he’s pretty fucking pissed about the latter, ‘cause who the fuck could be heartless enough to lead Scott-fucking-Malkinson on? Dude’s a fucking puppy, all harmless and eager and shit.

Not even Craig could muster up any malice when faced with him.

“Yeah, they were pretty awesome,” The Coon sighs wistfully, his eyes glazing over as he stares into the distance; it’s a well-known fact that _no one_ had the patience for The Coon quite like Stray – or rather, _the New Kid_ , ‘cause no one really bothered to learn their name or anything else about them – like, not even _Chaos_ has that kinda tolerance for the fat bastard. Craig wonders if The Coon feels lonely without the New Kid around – then he wonders why he gives a shit.

“And now they’re pretty _gone_ ,” he remarks, before he casts a glance down the street where Freedom Pals had retreated, “good to know we can still kick ass without them though.” His heart isn’t in the praise and he feels hollow when Mosquito whoops in agreement, completing a full loop in the air with a broad smile on his face; Craig wonders if his best friend still sees this shit as some kinda game, that Tupperware’s still their best friend and that this whole showdown is just another part of the fun.

‘Cause it really isn’t.

And to him and to Kite, and certainly to _The Coon_ , this fight is about so much fucking more.

“Speaking of kicking ass!” Mosquito calls out, flitting over to Craig’s side and plastering himself against his side with a soft trilling buzz, his arms looping around Craig’s neck loosely, “I thought Tempest was gonna kick yours when he saw your new costume!”

Craig scoffs and shrugs the Hybrid away from him.

“I handled him just fine,” he says nonchalantly.

“Bet you always handle him just fuh-fuh— handle him— bet you always handle him just— handle him just fuh-fuhh— just fine,” Fastpass remarks with a wink; Craig flips him off and turns back to Mosquito when his friend tugs insistently on his arm.

“Dude, not gonna lie, I was worried for a hot-ass second. Like, you _know_ I appreciate your appreciation for hot blondes,” Mosquito says, his eyes glazing over for a moment, “but _fuck_ , Tempest is something else!”

“Yeah, he is,” Craig sighs; he’s annoyed with how wistful he sounds and tries to school his face into something more neutral. It clearly works, as Mosquito pokes his cheek curiously with a concerned frown on his sweet face.

“Hey, how come you’re not more messed up about this shit?” he asks lightly, “when Bebe broke up with me back in sixth grade for two months, I was a total wreck!” His words cause Craig to snort shortly – ‘cause he _knows_ how much of a wreck his friend had been, _he had fucking witnessed it_ – before leaning in with a faint smile on his lips.

“Dude, I’m gonna let you in on a secret,” he says, before he flicks his eyes across the street to check for eavesdroppers; he can see that The Coon’s been distracted by Kite, and Fastpass has joined Captain Diabetes to conduct some emergency PR for Coon and Friends with the spectators who stuck around to watch the fight. Craig deems it safe enough for a heart-to-heart with his BFF, so he sighs and admits, “I’m constantly messed up about shit all the time, I just don’t have the energy to emote that shit, nor do I have the time to answer questions which are prompted when I do have the energy to emote that shit. I am so messed up, I don’t even know where to begin picking apart the tangled mess inside my goddamn head; I spend every night staring at my ceiling trying to figure out why I can’t get to sleep before realising that I’ve placed too many stars into the constellation of Leo which just makes my head hurt more. Clyde, I’m a mess, I’m so messed up, I’ve reached whole new levels of messed up that the government’s gonna have to fucking quarantine me at some point ‘cause I am _this_ close,” Craig holds up his thumb and forefinger to illustrate, “to exploding.”

“Dude, your fingers are literally touching though.”

“Exactly.”

Mosquito blinks before he buzzes quietly and gently leans his head against Craig’s.

“Want to stay over at mine?” he offers in a delicate murmur.

“Your house makes me sad,” Craig replies, ‘cause Mr Donovan tends to drift around the house like an empty husk and it just drains the life outta everyone who comes into contact with him. Admittedly, the dude doesn’t act like that around town, but behind closed doors, he’s a total ghost and it’s even worse now that Clyde’s sister has fucked off outta town and outta state. Craig’s also pretty sure the house is _actually_ fucking haunted by an actual fucking ghost, considering Kenny once told him that he witnessed the toilet seat being slammed back down and he has to wonder if the afterlife really is that boring for Mrs Donovan to just be hanging out in the goddamn bathroom.

He thought about asking Kenny about the afterlife once, but considering the guy’s unpredictable touchiness regarding his immortality, he thought better of it.

“You make it less sad,” Mosquito cajoles, looping an arm around Craig’s whilst batting his eyes beseechingly.

Craig narrows his eyes at Mosquito, before he turns to Fastpass, “hey dude, come and make Mosquito’s house less sad with me.”

“A sleepover?” Fastpass asks, tilting his head as he beams brightly, “are we finally having that orgy to help you get over your buh-buh— your buhh— to help you get over your buh-broken heart?”

“My heart isn’t broken,” Craig insists, but his friends aren’t buying his bullshit for a second, “and we’re not having a goddamn orgy, so stop asking for one.”

“Don’t give up hope, Super Guy!” Captain Diabetes cheers, which informs Craig that his apparent private conversation hasn’t been so private after all, “Tempest looked mighty mad about your new look, maybe he still harbours feelings for you!”

“Didn’t ask for your input, dude,” Craig says, shooting him a dry glare over his shoulder; he tries to ignore the way his heart leaps at Captain Diabetes’ words and finds it to be a fruitless effort, for his veins practically vibrate with fucking _hope_.

“He’s got a point SG, you’re totally oblivious,” The Human Kite sighs, almost in disappointment, which wow – _fuck_ Kyle Broflovski, Jesus, who invited them to this fucking conversation? Craig feels irritation prickle at his nerves, ‘cause honestly, the dude hasn’t even _been_ in a proper relationship and now they’re acting like some kinda guru? Craig scowls at them, ‘cause Kyle might be one of the hottest people at school, but they’ve also got shitty game and a horrible history with dating, so who the fuck do they think they are lecturing Craig?

Goddammit, he cannot believe the audacity of this fucker and he’s about to snipe back at them, but The Coon beats him to it by the slightest second.

“Are you serious right now?” he says in sheer disbelief, staring at The Human Kite with irritated incredulity, “ _Super Guy_ is the one being an oblivious dickwad?”

The Human Kite – amazingly – ducks their head as an ugly flush creeps up their neck and ears.

“I don’t think I get what you’re trying to say,” they reply stubbornly, “nor do I appreciate your tone!”

“Dude – you are _this_ close to getting a time out.”

And it’s at that moment when Craig realises that Kyle-fucking-Broflovski is still denying the neon fucking signs which burn brightly above Stan and Wendy’s heads, alongside the heart-eyes and the fact that they just _stare_ at Kyle whenever they’re in their general vicinity. It’s fucking lame and Craig is tired, so he finds himself immediately losing interest in hanging out with them any further.

“I’m officially done with today, so I’m out,” he announces, before he turns to Mosquito, “I’m gonna grab some shit then I’ll see you later.”

Mosquito shoots up a peace sign and beams, his wings fluttering excitedly behind him.

“Later dude,” he trills, Fastpass chiming in with a similar farewell; Craig shoots back a pair of peace signs and absently wonders if a sleepover will genuinely make him feel better or if it will make everything worse, “hey, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll even let you bring your hamster too!”

Goddammit.

“She’s a _guinea pig_!”

* * *

“So, that’s $50 dollars to Harris who bet on the fat furry to win, congrats Harris!”

“Thank you sir, apologies you didn’t win your bet about the black kid.”

“Oh, there’s always next time, you know these types of kids – eventually they’ll get bored and take their shit to the streets again.”

“Shouldn’t we _arrest_ them next time?”

“Harris, are you not $50 richer right now?”

“Ah, of course sir.”

“Gotta remember your priorities – now let’s get going. The drug dealer living next to the gimp is making movements again!”

* * *

Token winces when he hears Tweek slam his bedroom door shut.

It had been an awkward walk back home, with Tweek determined to not talk about the fight, Craig’s new costume, or the fact that the Brutalist still refused to hand over Stripe. To be fair, Tweek’s been on edge ever since the debacle with Clyde yesterday, but today’s confrontation certainly hasn’t helped to soothe his friend’s clearly ruffled feathers. He had then stormed into the house with an announcement that he would be busy meditating and left behind a shellshocked silence to ring throughout their home.

“Will he be okay, sweetie?” his mom asks, joining him to stare worriedly up the stairs.

Token shrugs and leans into her gently.

“His mom came by the shop yesterday,” he murmurs, ‘cause even though Tweek swore him to secrecy, he knows that it’s best to let his parents know of her intrusion. If anything, it will help to build up a stronger case for a restraining order and will personally make him feel safer when he’s on a shift at the coffeehouse.

“That woman…” his mom sighs, her tone despairing but hardened with an edge of irritation, “you know, I cannot believe I used to be friends with Helen. She seemed so sweet and more down to Earth than her piece of shit husband—”

“Mom!”

“—I mean it, Token! That man talked a lot, but didn’t actually say a damn thing,” his mom insists, “Helen though? I was certain she had her head on straight. A bit loopy, for sure, but everyone knew that Tweek was the centre of her universe,” she pauses as she rests a hand on Token’s shoulder; he’s shot up recently, managing to gain a couple of inches on his mom, but he still feels _small_ in her presence, “or so we thought.”

“Yeah, guess not everyone has a neon sign above their head which says _abusive dickwad_ with an arrow pointing down, huh?”

“Watch your language,” his mom admonishes gently, batting at his shoulder sharply.

“Sorry mom.”

“You are right though – honestly, we all know that South Park doesn’t exactly have a _great_ selection of parents, what with the Stotch family and oh god, don’t even get me started on those McCormicks, but the Tweaks? They’re really something else,” she says, shaking her head to herself. She has a point and it’s always blown Token’s mind how South Park just doesn’t give much of a shit about parents beating on their kids; he knows the cops have been called out to Kenny’s house numerous times, but nothing ever happens. Kenny and Butters don’t acknowledge shit, they don’t really appreciate anyone else acknowledging shit, but more fool him for assuming Tweek would feel the same about his situation.

Token sighs as he glances up the stairs again; his sensors can feel the temperature dropping several degrees and he knows Tweek is having an _Elsa_ -moment, as he’s taken to calling it, so he knows to give his friend some breathing space until things warm up again.

“You know, I could always come down to the shop, work some shifts, keep an eye on things?” his mom offers, nudging him, “I’m owed a few days off at the pharmacy anyway, so it should be fine.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Token says, his eyebrows knitting together with threads of worry, “I think it’d make him feel trapped or some shi— _stuff_.”

“Good save,” his mom says wryly, before she sighs and nods to herself, “alright then, I’ll get started on dinner. Please tell Tweek that he’s welcomed to join us, but if not, I’ll leave it in the fridge with—”

“—with the ingredients listed, I know.”

“No need, I’m coming,” Tweek says, descending the stairs with his head ducked low as he plays with the buttons on his shirt; Token’s taken to fixing them in the morning, but somehow, they still end up mismatched by the end of the day, “I, _uh_ , can I still eat with you? Please?”

He looks somewhat ashamed, but he no longer appears as highly-strung as before and his face has regained some colour. The house is slightly warmer too, but Token’s heart still aches at the sight of his friend withdrawing inside himself and slightly regrets holding back in the fight earlier. He definitely regrets retreating as early as they did, but he understands why Mysterion called them back; their collective energy levels had been depleted from the fight with the robbers, so getting into a ruckus with Coon and Friends had been admittedly stupid.

“Honey, you don’t need to ask!” his mom exclaims softly, her eyes encouragingly bright, “come on, I was just about to start on dinner. Would you like to help?”

“Oh, yes please,” Tweek says, his eyes lighting up as he walks down the last few steps and begins following the Black’s matriarch towards the kitchen. Token reaches out and gently grasps Tweek’s shoulder, nodding to his friend when he glances up curiously.

“You good?” Token asks.

Tweek cants his head and shrugs, “one must resolutely train oneself to attain peace,” he recites, his lips quirking up in a crooked smile.

“Right on Buddha,” Token remarks warmly, sending up a peace sign.

They reach the kitchen and Token automatically begins setting up the table; it’s one of the few jobs he’s allowed to have when his mom is cooking. He takes out the plates and cutlery, skilfully placing them upon the table with precision; he finds he quite enjoys chores like this, where the entire point of the task is to make something _look_ nice. Token even goes so far as to take out four napkins and folds them into butterflies, ‘cause he knows how much Tweek appreciates them.

At the kitchen counter, Token can hear Tweek asking his mom about dinner; it’s a standard conversation, where his mom or dad breaks down the recipe to the ingredients, even going so far as to explain where they bought the ingredients and where they originated from. Token’s always known his parents are, to some degree, pretty chill, considering they willingly adopted a Cyborg son and have kept his secret ever since, but seeing them interact with Tweek has made him appreciate them even more.

“It’s lemon and garlic chicken casserole, sweetie,” his mom is saying, gesturing to the raw chicken before them; it’s already soaked with lemon juice and Token can spy the cloves of garlic inside the carcass, “why don’t you go to the garden and get me some chive, parsley, dill, thyme and, oh, some rosemary too. They should be fully grown now, right?”

“They are,” Tweek confirms, with pride colouring his tone.

“Good, now go snip those herbs for me and we can cook it together,” she says, handing Tweek a pair of large scissors, smiling warmly at him.

“Together?” Tweek asks with a pleased little grin.

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t asking Token! Boy burns milk just by looking at it, now go!” she shoos Tweek towards the door, “get me some herbs before I grow old.”

“Yes ma’am,” Tweek says with a bright smile, bouncing lightly on his heels with an eager gleam in his eyes; he turns on his heel and scurries out of the kitchen towards his herb garden, the scissors clutched tightly in his quivering hands.

“Oh, so polite,” his mom gushes, watching Tweek with a smile brimming with affection; it turns wry and teasing as she turns to Token, arching a playful brow, “Token, why don’t you call me _ma’am_?”

“I did _once_ ,” he replies wryly, pursing his lips into a sulky pout, “and you told me I didn’t get to call you that until I came home with either grandkids or a Ph.D.”

“I hope you know which one needs prioritising,” his dad suddenly says, sitting next to him at the table with a stern expression. Token rolls his eyes and slowly slouches further down in his chair, ‘cause he’s had this conversation at least fourteen times since entering eleventh grade, and he sure as shit doesn’t what to experience a _fifteenth_.

“Yes, dad,” he groans out tiredly, “I know—”

“ _Grandkids_ ,” his mom chips in.

“—a Ph.D.,” Token says at the same time, furrowing his brows as he stares at her, “yeah, no. I’m only seventeen and Nichole’s already said she isn’t reproducing until she climbs at least three rungs on her chosen career ladder.” Plus, he isn’t sure he _can_ reproduce, but that’s a conversation to be had in five years’ time, at least.

His mom narrows his eyes thoughtfully, “smart girl,” she nods to herself, before she wags a finger in Token’s direction, “she’s too good for you.”

“Yeah,” Token sighs wistfully, sitting up as a dreamy smile twitches on his lips; he’s glad that he has enough _human_ in him to have emotions, ‘cause what he feels for Nichole is just indescribable and he honestly would be so lost in life without her, “she is.”

His mom hums indulgently before turning back to the counter to marinate diced vegetables with lemon juice, garlic and butter; they’ve had to dial back their palates for Tweek, reducing the amount of heat and spice which goes into their food, but that doesn’t mean his mom had been willing to skimp on flavour. The Elementalist has never really been treated to flavours outside of bitter and salty, or sweet and coffee-flavoured, so it’s been kinda nice introducing his friend to a whole new world outside of the Tweak’s toxic kitchen.

Token catches his dad’s soft smile and hums lightly, knowing that no matter what happens, they’ll fight for Tweek and will continue fighting for him, even if the guy doesn’t think he’s deserving of it.

“Is this, _nngh_ , enough?” Tweek asks as his slips back inside the kitchen, dirt clinging to his jeans as his hands clutch onto a bundle of mixed herbs; he sidles up to Token’s mom so she can inspect his work. Token watches as Tweek practically vibrates with nervous energy, so desperate to impress and so terrified of disappointing his new family. Token’s mom hums lightly as she picks apart Tweek’s offerings, a smile on her face as she nods with satisfaction.

“Thank you, honey,” she says, taking the herbs from Tweek and placing them upon her chopping board, “these will do nicely. I gotta say Tweek, I am impressed with your garden, you’re doing so well with it.”

Tweek nods, picking at a stray thread on his shirt, “I’m just thankful you let me make it; I know Dr Goodall said I needed something practical to, _ah_ , focus on, but I just—”

“It’s fine Tweek,” his mom interjects gently, before gesturing to the knife, “how about you help me cut up these herbs and I’ll show you how I make my famous casserole.”

“Famous?” Tweek echoes, offering her a hesitant smile as he gingerly picks up the knife and slowly cuts the herbs up into fine pieces.

Token snorts and shares an amused, knowing glance with his dad, “my mom claims that she makes _famous_ everything, so don’t take it seriously,” then he holds up a hand to list off the following, “there’s her famous chili, her famous jambalaya, her famous buffalo wings, her famous apple pie—”

“—you give me any more lip and you won’t be eating my famous _anything_ , Token—”

“Oh, don’t forget her _famous_ jerk stew,” his dad adds with a wry grin, a sparkle in his eyes as he gazes at his unimpressed wife. Token snorts and tries to stifle his laughter behind his hands as he remembers the last time his mom had made her jerk stew; she had added too much cayenne pepper into the seasoning and had almost destroyed Clyde’s taste buds for good.

“Damn, you should’ve seen it Tweek,” Token says, grinning broadly when Tweek pauses in his chopping to shoot him a curious look, “I think mom almost killed Clyde and I’m pretty sure Craig renewed his relationship with God too,” he pauses and shakes his head fondly, “I think Jimmy was the only one who came unscathed _and_ he asked for seconds.”

Tweek erupts in a fit of giggles, his cheeks flushing pink as he clutches at his stomach; Token feels pride swell up inside of him for successfully cheering up his despondent friend.

“Oh, I like that Jimmy boy,” his mom grins warmly, turning back to the raw chicken before she adds, “you should make friends with him again, he’s the only one I trust to tell me the truth when I try out new recipes.”

“Not happening mom,” Token shoots her down dryly, before he mutters, “not anytime soon, anyway.”

“You know, I always wondered why Craig started going back to church; he always evaded my questions and avoided telling me the truth even though I knew he was lying,” Tweek muses lightly, as he begins to rub the herbs across the chicken’s back, “I guess I finally have my answer now.” He’s completely unaware of how tense Token and his family have become, unsure as to how to respond to Tweek’s ex-boyfriend being mentioned in the house. Luckily, his mom is pretty much the brains of the household and knows how to take control of an uncomfortable atmosphere.

“Speaking of church,” she begins, which has Token tensing in his seat again for a different reason, “I know you don’t want to come with us on Sundays, because of—”

“Me being a Buddhist.”

“—yes, the Buddhist-thing,” she continues doggedly, “so, I was thinking, why don’t we set up a shrine for you?” Token’s heart pounds fiercely in his chest as he watches Tweek’s eyes widen with shock; he’s not sure if his mom has overstepped a boundary or anything, but then he sees the tiny smile of gratitude on the blond’s face and relaxes his hackles.

“A, _gah_ , shrine?” Tweek asks, his tone lightly hopeful.

“Yes honey,” she confirms, carefully lifting the chicken up to place it in a tray full of peppers, onions and mushrooms, “I did some research and whilst there aren’t any temples in South Park, we could set up one in the house? Or even your room? It’s completely up to you, Tweek.”

“I’ve,” Tweek begins before he twitches and clears his throat, fisting his shirt between damp fingers, “I’ve never had a shrine before,” then before anyone can say anything further, he’s throwing himself at Token’s mom with his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, “ _thank_ you.”

“You’re welcome Tweek,” his mom is quick to return the hug, “it’s not a big deal, we want you to feel at home with us, well, I mean a _real_ home, not like your old home, a _better_ home, well not a better home necessarily, but—”

“It’s okay,” Tweek interjects quietly, pulling out of the hug to give her a soft smile, “I, _ah_ , get it. It’ll be nice to have a shrine.”

“Oh good!” she says, looking slightly flustered as she picks up more cloves of garlic to scatter around the pan; inwardly, Token feels like apologising to Nichole in advance, ‘cause she is _not_ gonna want to kiss him after this meal, “you must tell me what you want in your _Buddhist_ shrine – would you like a statue? Rugs? Incense, or something? If you want candles, then I’m afraid they’ll have to be fake sweetie, I know what you boys are like and I’m not about to let you run amok with naked flames inside this home.”

Tweek blinks and visibly bites back a smirk, “it’s okay,” he repeats, “I, _ah_ , don’t really _do_ fire,” he shares an amused glance with Token, “but thank you again, it’s, _nngh_ , nice.”

“So _polite_ , you could teach Token a thing or two!” his mom gushes again, before turning to place the chicken inside the oven with a broad smile.

Token grins to himself and shares a look with his dad; honestly, Tweek is gonna _freak_ when he finds out he’s getting officially adopted for his birthday…

* * *

After checking in with Kevin and Karen, Kenny absconds to the ruins of SoDaSoPa, hiding in the rafters of _Steed_ to lick his wounds in peace.

He doesn’t get much of a reprieve though, as the moment he sits down, his phone begins to buzz incessantly. With a heavy sigh, Kenny digs it free from his pockets and winces as he pulls on the wounds on his hip – normally, he’d quite enjoy the pain from being scratched up, but The Coon’s nails are something else and no matter how soothing Tempest’s rain showers could be, the pain still fucking lingers. God, he feels so fucking old and weary and he finds himself wondering, _again_ , if he ought to hang up the cowl.

But then he’d just be an undead dickhead, instead of an undead dickhead in spandex.

How uncool.

Peering at the screen, Kenny furrows his brows when he realises he’s being contacted on Coonstagram from a superhero he hasn’t spoken to in a while; he’s always assumed Wendy’s got more important shit to deal with than petty hero bullshit, but he supposes broken hearts and romantic entanglements are straight up her street.

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: Hi.

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: I’d like to stay as impartial as possible, which given my boyfriend’s stance on things, isn’t very impartial. I don’t condone what you’ve done, but I think you’re genuinely sorry, which is why I’m sending you this link.

[Call Girl] invites [Mysterion] to download [ whereisprofessorchaos ]

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: The password is ‘Pandemonium’. I set it up with a friend in order to track down Butters’ whereabouts using IP addresses, iCloud traces and social media footprints. We’ve managed to identify five potential relatives, but until we hit a jackpot, we’re not releasing any further information.

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: I’m sure you can understand why.

Kenny scowls as he taps back a reply; he’s too tired, too full of pain and too short on patience to be dealing with her holier-than-thou bullshit right now.

[Mysterion] sent to [Call Girl]: I’m not going to hurt anyone else.

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: That remains to be seen, but whatever. The software will download onto your phone and will send you an alert when we manage to track down Chaos. Don’t get too excited, though, as you’re blocked from viewing the administrator’s sites.

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: So, in short, you won’t be able to view the maps we’re using, nor are we allowing anyone access to the data we’re collecting and the names of relatives we’re tracking.

[Mysterion] sent to [Call Girl]: Who the fuck do you think I am?

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: Oh, this isn’t because of what you’ve done, it’s just standard procedure for anyone accessing the site who isn’t admin.

Her words do little to soothe his prickled nerves.

[Mysterion] sent to [Call Girl]: Who the fuck else has access to this app?

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information.

[Mysterion] sent to [Call Girl]: I swear to god, if you’ve sent this shit to that fucking furry, I will fuck you up.

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: With or without the shuriken?

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: Apologies, that was uncalled for, but rest assured, only people who have an interest in Chaos’ wellbeing will receive a link.

[Mysterion] sent to [Call Girl]: That’s a goddamn yes if I’ve ever seen one.

[Call Girl] sent to [Mysterion]: Mayhaps. So long Mysterion and do keep an eye on Toolshed for me.

Her words sound final and Kenny doesn’t bother messaging her back; Wendy’s a locked safe when it comes to secrets and information, so he knows when to drop shit. Granted, he doesn’t _always_ know which battles he needs to pick and which ones he shouldn’t, ‘cause Kenny never backs down from a fight when he’s working solo, but Wendy’s fierce and she always has him pausing in his tracks.

Even over the phone.

Well, especially over the phone, seeing as she can blow the damn thing up from a distance.

“Kenny!” Kevin’s voice suddenly breaks through the frosty-still air and has Kenny almost jumping out of his skin in surprise, “get down from the damn scaffolding!”

“Can’t, I’m a broken boy,” Kenny reports sullenly before he frowns to himself and adds, “person, whatever.”

“I don’t give a damn what kinda broken you are, you can be broken inside the house!” Kevin hollers back, his voice closer now. Kenny pouts as he leans over the frame and finds his brother standing beneath the ruins of _Steed_ with an unimpressed frown, “you can’t get sick again, Ken! I can’t afford any more time off work and Karen’s got that important exam coming up she needs to study for.” The fact that he doesn’t bring up their parents isn’t lost on either of them, nor does the issue of Kenny typically dying whenever he gets sick, but _still_.

Kenny pouts.

“Don’t pout, come down now.”

Kenny slouches further down the metal framework of _Steed_.

“Boy, don’t ignore me.”

Kenny closes his eyes; if he can’t see Kevin, maybe Kevin can’t see him?

“I’ll make pizza bagels and let you whine about that weird rabbit boy of yours.”

Kenny perks up a little and peers over the ledge, “you promise not to make any mean comments?”

“Let me make at least two mean comments and you got yourself a deal,” Kevin replies, his lips quirking up in a crooked grin; it’s a familiar sight which tells Kenny that he won’t have to worry about his brother being mean to him at all and actually, he’ll probably be treated to a hug or five.

He might be seventeen, but to Kevin, he’ll _always_ be a rotten ten-year-old boy who causes more trouble than he’s worth and honestly, the familiarity just makes Kenny feel _safe_. Besides, what kid doesn’t regress several years when they walk through the front door of their childhood home? He swings his legs over the side of _Steed_ and jumps down before he can warn Kevin; his brother curses when he lands neatly in front of him and consequently, Kenny receives a quick slap to the back of his head.

“Don’t do that shit in front of me,” Kevin scolds, before he slings an arm around Kenny’s slender shoulders and tucks him in close against his sturdier body, “I don’t care if shit ain’t permanent, you put yourself in danger in front of me again, and I’ll wring your scrawny neck, got it?” It’s an empty threat, ‘cause Kevin’s never laid a hand on his siblings, nor would he ever dare; his words just have Kenny erupting into a fit of fierce giggles, using a hand to try and smother them fruitlessly.

“Can’t promise I will, but I can promise I’ll try.”

“Well, shit. I guess that’s good enough.”

Kenny cuddles deeper into his brother’s touch and already feels his heavy heart grow lighter.

* * *

“Have you told Mysterion?”

“Have _you_ told The Coon?”

Wendy can only wink at their companion when they receive a dry glare in response. They smile softly when the knowing silence stretches out, the comfortable hushed atmosphere only broken by her partner in crime tapping away at the laptop with intense fury.

“I suppose it would make things more awkward,” they hum thoughtfully, their eyes focused on their iPhone as notifications fly across the screen, “best not to let our _illustrious_ leaders know we’re in cahoots.”

Their companion snorts and Wendy can barely restrain their own amusement.

“Yeah, I suppose _illustrious_ is a generous word, especially for The Coon,” they say, idly glancing to their Samsung, where a brightly coloured map of Colorado flickers with multicoloured pins scattered across it, “still, I’d hate to see their reactions should they find out what we’re really doing.”

“I think you mean,” Jimmy says, flicking a sparkling smile at them, “when they find out what we’re really doing _together_ , very much.”

Wendy snorts, “yeah,” they concede, “we would be fucked.”

“And not in the fuh-fuh-fun way,” Jimmy adds.

“Nope,” Wendy sighs, “definitely _not_ in the fun way.”


	4. The Hundred Hands of Chaos

“Listen, little girl, I can’t just let anyone off the streets wander in, okay? It’s dangerous and—”

“And _nothing_!” Nichole interjects heatedly, slamming her hands onto the counter, “you _arrested_ my father on false drug claims! Don’t make me _show_ you dangerous!” A piercing pain races through her mind as she glares coldly at the receptionist behind the bulletproof glass.

The asshole behind the glass merely holds up his hands haughtily as looks down at her, condescension leaking from every enlarged pore on his oily fucking face. The receptionist doesn’t even have a nametag, so Nichole can’t even stalk him later on Facebook and get Wendy to dox the shit outta him.

“Darling, we don’t just arrest people for no reason and we definitely don’t go around falsifying drug charges,” he says, having the audacity to sound utterly exasperated and a touch bored too, “so to throw around such accusations is just, well, it’s _slander_! Which is illegal, by the way!” he adds, his eyes gaining a smug glint, “adding to the very physical threat you just made, and I think I have myself several reasons to arrest you too! Is that what you want?”

“I _dare_ you, bitch!” Nichole bites out before she jumps at the sound of numerous police sirens going off just outside the station. She swallows down her budding rage and winces when the receptionist glances past her curiously, “listen, I just need you to tell me if he’s okay. Can you at least do that for me?”

Anticipation crawls beneath her skin as the sirens grow louder – she’s pretty sure it’s her fault but she can’t be entirely certain. Instead, Nichole focuses on the guy in front of her and wonders what she can do to persuade him to just give her fucking dad back to her!

“Your tone is getting rather aggressive and I—”

The receptionist is cut off, his face freezing as his mouth hangs agape; Nichole isn’t sure what’s happening or why this asshole is just gawping at her until she realises that he just… isn’t moving. His chest isn’t moving, his eyes aren’t blinking and a fleeting glance to the clock tells her that time has essentially stopped.

She’s.

She’s _never_ frozen time before.

Licking her dry lips, she waves a hesitant hand before the receptionist’s eyes and is stunned when he doesn’t even react – shit, she’s _really_ frozen time! Nichole doesn’t really pay attention to superhero stuff beyond making sure her friends are safe, but even she’s heard of Stray, the New Kid in town who could control time and space. Hope swells in her heart as she considers taking advantage of the moment to go and free her dad, but then logic kicks in.

How long can she even maintain this power?

What if time unfreezes midway through liberating him?

How would she even get him out if he’s frozen too?

What if time never unfreezes and she’s just _stuck_ —

“—will not condone this wily, disrespectful attitude! Honestly, the youth of today don’t know how to treat their elders!” the receptionist continues pompously and oh, _goddammit_.

She should’ve just taken the risk.

His hypocrisy astounds her but the fact that she’s still not getting anywhere with him is most aggrieving of all. Nichole grits her teeth as she clenches her fists; she can feel her vision begin to blur as a heavy pressure builds in her head. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and steps away from the counter; she’s already frozen time and potentially set off the sirens, she can’t risk losing any more control. Not with her dad and half of South Park police just behind a single door.

It’s strange how the public view superpowered individuals; like, Token can hide his Cyborg nature behind thick clothes, make-up and contacts, ‘cause in his civvies, he’d be arrested and shipped off to the nearest research facility. Or he’d be shipped off to the nearest dismantling factory to be sold for parts – it makes Nichole shiver, ‘cause every time Token walks out the door, she’s constantly worried about him being busted during gym at school, or on the street when it rains. Anyways, it’s strange ‘cause the moment he suits up as Tupperware, it’s like an _accepted_ thing, where yeah, it might be illegal, but he’s a _superhero_ , it makes sense for him to have powers.

Nichole isn’t a superhero though, has _zero_ interest in the gig; so, she needs to keep her shit together and keep shit under wraps, otherwise… well, Psychics are deeply feared for a reason. Their powers can change the universe if wielded correctly but in the wrong hands, they can also destroy the very fabric of space and time; if anyone _normal_ discovered her secret, then she could kiss her pleasant life and hopeful future goodbye.

She drums her fingers alongside her thighs and tries to count in time with the beats.

“Little girl, are you having some kinda hysterical episode?” the asshole behind the counter asks, “do I need to put you in the safe room with Mr Adams?”

Her eyes snap open and she bares her teeth, “you think this is a hysterical episode? Let me _show_ you a hysterical episode—”

“Hey Nichole!” Wendy rushes out, stalking into the police station with flushed cheeks, “Token texted me – said something about utilising my privilege?” She throws her arms around Nichole, wrapping her friend up in a tight embrace, “do you need it? I don’t want to, y’know, speak over you or assume you can’t do this yourself, but I’m here?”

Her timing couldn’t be any better as Nichole’s pretty sure she had been on the verge of making the worst mistake of her life.

Nichole snorts and gratefully accepts Wendy’s hug, “I think I could use your skillset honestly,” she pulls away and nods towards the asshole behind the counter, “they have my dad back there and won’t release him ‘cause apparently he’s some drug lord,” she turns around and glares at the receptionist, “which, by the way, is a load of _bullshit_!”

“Language!” the receptionist gasps.

“Well, of course it’s bullshit, ‘cause your dad is anything _but_ a drug lord,” Wendy says warmly before she snaps her head towards the receptionist with a sharp, hungry grin, “understood?” she asks him, approaching the counter on light, predatory steps.

“Now, see here—” he begins, but Nichole can see that her friend is just getting started and grins, stepping back to enjoy the show.

“No, _you_ see here: William Daniels is a wonderful father, a loving husband and has owned the town’s library for five years and counting,” Wendy states, her hands on her hips as she stares him down, “he’s an upstanding citizen who had been _personally_ hired by Mayor McDaniels due to his integrity, his hardworking nature and his dedication to his community. To arrest him on false claims, _with no evidence_ or _probable cause_ , is a _gross_ act of unjustice and if you refuse to release Mr Daniels today, then rest assured I will return tomorrow _with the Mayor_ and you can explain to her as to why the town’s only librarian has been locked up during _mid-terms_!”

“Little missy, I _told_ your friend—”

“I am _not_ a missy, so don’t you dare take such a condescending tone with me!” Wendy snarls back, “I tried playing nice, so how about this,” she takes out her phone and begins tapping viciously at the screen, “either you convince Sergeant Asshole to release Mr Daniels _today_ , or I will inform your wife about the pregnant mistress you have hidden away in Aurora.”

“Are you blackmailing an officer—”

“Oh please, you’re a glorified secretary at best,” Wendy scoffs mutinously, “ _at best_. And even then, in the past month alone, this precinct has taken forty-five bribes, falsely arrested seventy-two individuals, solicited the services of sex workers twenty-eight times and that’s not even getting into your extensive list of aggressive tactics and accusations of intimidation, or would you like me to carry on detailing your illegal activities?”

“Miss—”

“I am _not_ a miss!” Wendy interjects and Nichole can feel her phone vibrating in her pocket; her eyes catch the way the cameras begin to quiver and even the receptionist’s computer starts crackling. She winces as a sharp pain shoots through her head and she wonders if mentally reacting to other powers is normal.

“Uh, _sir_ , I mean _not_ sir,” the receptionist stammers, standing up from his chair to fumble his way out of his cubicle, “I mean young, angry person, let me just go fetch Sergeant Yates and we’ll get this little misunderstanding cleared up.”

Wendy sneers as she watches him disappear behind the solid, steel door leading into the bullpen; Nichole rolls her eyes irritably, ‘cause clearly, they’ve had a boost in funding and judging by the upgrades, the cops have wasted no time in spending the mayor’s money.

Assholes.

“Hey, are you okay?” Wendy asks, nudging Nichole gently, “I know, dumb question, but… you look like you’re about to faint?” She then nods towards Nichole’s head with a subtle arched brow, “is everything okay?”

“I’m just tired,” Nichole sighs, rubbing her temples wearily, “it’s been a long day and surprise, surprise, my emotions have an effect on _certain_ things.”

“Shit,” Wendy mutters to herself, her eyes glancing at the cameras as she purses her lips into a calculating moue, “okay – nothing’s happened right?”

“I froze time for a few seconds and set off the police sirens outside,” Nichole murmurs, her eyes flicking towards the entrance, “unless that was you?”

“No,” Wendy says, shaking her head, “damn, your field of power is growing, huh?”

Nichole snorts, but her mirth is short-lived, “god,” she moans, “I wish The Doctor could come back soon, I don’t know any other _you_ - _know_ - _whats_ and I think things are getting worse.” Wendy hums as she places her cool fingers against Nichole’s temples, rubbing circles against the skin soothingly.

“I’ve messaged him,” she confides quietly, “he says he’s gonna be interning for at least another month, but he trusts in your ability to control yourself.”

Nichole smirks, “I think I’d have better control if dumb bitch men weren’t testing my patience.”

“That’s _Sergeant_ Dumb Bitch Man to you,” Sergeant Yates suddenly announces, stalking into reception with a sour expression on his face. Nichole’s mind feels bloated and heavy as she takes in his awful face; god, she loathes him. She’s never hated a single being so much before in her whole life and though she’s never been tempted to go rogue like Butters, she would quite happily burst Yates’ head like a motherfucking water balloon, “I hope you’ve brought your credit cards, ladies, ‘cause that drug lord’s bail is set at $50,000.”

“Fifty fucking grand?” Nichole echoes, feeling appalled and disgusted all at once.

“Done,” Wendy snaps out impatiently, before she flicks her hand at the man in a shooing motion, “return with Mr Daniels and I’ll give you your money.”

“You… you have fifty thousand right now?” Sergeant Yates arches a brow and Nichole feels her skin crawl. The cops might be fucking idiots, but they’re still _cops_. His scans them both, suspicion radiating from him; for a terrifying second, Nichole thinks he’s heard more of their conversation than she’d like, but…

“You want to risk _not_ getting fifty thousand right now? Imagine, just what you could be doing this afternoon with that kinda money.” _You depraved fucking bastards_ , just hangs in the air but only Wendy and Nichole can hear it.

Her words are seemingly enough to pique Sergeant Yates’ interest, as his eyes light up greedily, his lips quirking up in a grin. He nods at her and turns to leave, “pleasure doing business with you, ladies,” he says, his voice like oil – all slick and thick and greasy. Then he’s gone and Wendy blows out a heavy sigh that belies the taut tension clinging to her body.

“You’re not seriously giving this asshole fifty thousand dollars, are you?” Nichole utters, grabbing Wendy’s shoulders and shaking her friend lightly, “where did you even get that kinda money.”

“Calm down Nichole,” Wendy croons, petting Nichole’s hands soothingly, “it’s not _real_ – it’s _Monopoly_ money at best. I’ll just go through the motions, pretend I’m paying them, when in reality,” she lowers her voice as her eyes gleam excitedly, “I’m _actually_ hacking into their records to have fifty thousand show up on their systems, but not their actual accounts. Also, it will give me the chance to dox Sergeant Shitface for calling me _lady_ twice.”

Nichole blinks.

“God, you’re amazing,” she breathes, feeling incomprehensibly grateful for her friend’s existence and willingness to help her out with this shit.

“Yeah,” Wendy shrugs, a pleased flush on her cheeks, “I know.”

* * *

‘ _Who controls you, Eric? Mitch Connor? Cupid Me? Do you allow your schizophrenia to define and rule you? Or do you let the Olanzapine do your thinking for you? You might be medicated now, but only you can decide your behaviour towards others and yourself – think of it as being similar to medication for a headache. Sure, the headache may have impeded my actions before, but now that it’s gone away, I’m in complete control. So, tell me Eric, are you in control of your actions_?’

Cartman sighs as he takes his medication like a good boy and closes his eyes, willing away the echo of Dr Jameson's words from his last session.

It’s kinda _lonely_ , no longer hearing Cupid Me’s pitchy little giggles or Mitch Connor’s gruff commentary on life. It reminds him of the time where he had to say goodbye to Polly Prissypants and Clyde Frog; it had taken him weeks to fall asleep comfortably by himself, in the hollow and empty silence of his room, and now, it’s like. It’s like. It’s like he’s mourning his toys all over again.

He’s _alone_ , again.

Surrounded by complete fucking nothingness, bar him and his thoughts.

Except, it’s even worse ‘cause even his real friends are being fucking assholes right now, so he’s extra fucking alone. God, how low has he fallen when one of his few people he has left is fucking _Kyle_?

“This,” Cartman declares to the bathroom mirror, “this is my Vietnam.”

He drags himself away from the sink and slinks out of the bathroom to hide in his bedroom once more; his mom is busy downstairs, entertaining Boyfriend #12 with tales of her youth and bringing up a child as a single mother. Cartman rolls his eyes as he hears her laughter and wonders how long this asshole will last; he never bothers to remember their names and takes vicious glee in just calling them by number to their pathetic faces.

Dating makes her happy though and she’s stopped charging the fuckers, so it’s progress or whatever.

He hates that he can’t just wander around his house, ‘cause he has to tuck his extra appendages away just to grab a goddamn snack. Even worse, if there’s one thing his mom’s boyfriends all have in common, it’s that they want to ‘get to know him’, which is such horseshit. No one wants to ‘get to know him’, they don’t get the choice. Cartman prefers forcing his way into people’s lives, making himself important and unforgettable before they have a chance to reject him or worse, _ignore_ him.

Like, his friends never got the choice and they probably understand him in ways that his mom never will. At least, Kenny does. Kyle, to an extent and Stan to a lesser extent. Still, no one will ever get him or accept him like _Butters_. Dude has a tolerance for his bullshit that Cartman has never really experienced before, not even from fucking Kenny.

Fuck, he needs to kick-start that plan he’s been formulating since getting cussed out by Linda Stotch; god forbid him from admitting it out loud, but he misses Butters. The little asshole was so fucking reliable and perfectly conditioned to just go along with whatever Cartman wanted to do that day, and yet he _still_ had enough backbone in him to bite back when shit went too far.

It’s sad to say, but he’s been waiting for Butters to return home for _days_ , religiously checking Jimmy’s app every day for updates and alerts. His phone stays silent though and the anxiety in Cartman’s gut just _grows_ like a fucking tumor.

He’s half-tempted to call Jimmy up and force the asshole into giving him admin’s rights, but then he hears the sound of a car outside; he _knows_ every car on this street by engine alone and he _knows_ that this car isn’t familiar to him. It also stops just short of his house which can only mean one thing…

God, it must be a testament to how much Butters actually means to him that he basically runs over to the window, tail swishing and ears pricked forward eagerly. His eyes laser in on the old woman in the driver’s seat and he bares his teeth – Butters’ grandma is a total fucking bitch and he would love to just fucking… _pop_ her head off like a bottlecap, but then Butters would just cry all over him like a little pussy, so he has to quell his urges with astonishing willpower. Still, he has great fun imagining her death, all slow and painful, and oh _shit_ , she’s alone?

He narrows his eyes as she ambles her way out of her shitty Prius and hobbles up to the front door. Cartman presses up against his bedroom window and curses the fact that he cannot get a visual on whoever is greeting Grandma Stotch; fuck, he bets it’s Stephen, the lousy asshole’s probably on his knees and bowing to the bitter bitch. Now he’s pretty tempted to call Kenny up and taunt him about Butters’ grandma showing up, ‘cause there’s a goddamn _line_ for her murder and the only other person in it is the rat king himself.

“Should I blow her car up?” he queries aloud, but as usual, only silence answers him. He’s never really gotten out of the habit of talking out loud, but he’s pretty grateful that his friends no longer question it. They do encourage him to use a phone when they’re out in public though, just for appearance’s sake.

‘ _You have an incoming call_ ,’ his computer announces, and Cartman turns to arch a brow at the screen, ‘ _You have an incoming call_.’

“Who the fuck uses Skype in this economy?” he mutters to himself, returning to his desk as he watches the Skype logo bounce in the corner of his screen. He opens it up and is stunned to see Butters’ avatar lighting up before him. He feels his brain crash for a second, like the [404: page not found] kinda shit, before it reconnects with a jolt, “holy shit.”

He rushes to the mouse to answer the call, his tail swishing excitedly, but is pretty disappointed when he finds that Butters hasn’t even turned his video on yet; still, the connection is stable and successful, and Cartman doesn’t think he’s ever felt so relieved to hear Butters’ bitchy fucking voice.

“Hiya Eric!” he chirps, sounding happy and healthy; Cartman narrows his eyes and strains his ears, but he can’t hear anything else in the background. He drums his fingers slightly, before he snatches up his headset and plugs it in, shoving it atop his head, but still.

There’s _nothing_ to give away Butters’ whereabouts.

“Hey Butters, heard your gay little ass got kicked outta in town,” he greets, his heart pounding as he adjusts his headset, “gotta say, shit is pretty weak around here, so I don’t know. Run the fuck away and come back, stop being such a selfish prick and maybe I’ll pick you up some Crispy Risotto Bites? As a show of good faith for not holding a grudge against you shocking the shit outta me last time.”

“Well gee, thanks Eric!” Butters replies, turning his video on to finally reveal his face. Cartman blinks as he takes in the pale face topped by limp hair, the sunken cheeks and dark bags. Butters looks like shit, but the worse part is the ugly red scar slicing through his left eye; it looks raw and the eye itself is milky and pale, “that’s awful kind—!”

“Holy shit Butters!” Cartman interjects, leaning towards the camera with wide eyes.

“Oh… does it look that bad?” Butters asks, his head ducked low as he knocks his knuckles together nervously. His turquoise-tinted fringe hangs over his eyes but it’s not enough to hide the damage.

“Kenny _really_ did a number on you,” Cartman says, whistling lowly as he greedily traces the scar; he couldn’t see it last time due to the thick bandages wrapped around the guy’s head, but Butters’ face looks truly fucked-the-shit-up, like _all_ the way up, “damn, guess this beats the time we performed liposuction on you, huh?”

“I, ah, really don’t think you can compare the two—”

“Dude, can you even _see_ out of it?” he interjects, practically bouncing in his seat as he leans in close. Fuck, it’s actually kinda badass but he knows it’ll fuck Kenny up to see the grave consequences of his dumbass actions. Which, in hindsight, is enormously hypocritical of him to say, but Cartman’s too busy thriving in the fact that, for once, someone else has managed to outdo him on the monumental Fuck Up scale.

“No, Eric, I can’t,” Butters replies dryly, his gaze skittering away from the camera, “I’m having it taken out and replaced by a—”

“Dude! Shut up! You’re getting a glass eye? Do you get to pick the colour? Dude! What?” The rapid-fire questions fly out of his mouth, envy coursing through his veins and absently, he wonders if he can get Kenny to throw a ninja star in his face. Like, a whole month off school, white trash getting deported from his life _and_ a sick glass eye?

Damn, Butters is living the dream!

“I, uh, yeah. I’m getting a glass eye – my, uh,” Butters coughs and glances up sheepishly, “the person I’m living with says my eye is pretty much a goner, so there’s no point in keeping it.”

Cartman straightens up and hums; his eyes glance past Butters’ body to focus on the background. Pastel yellow walls, a popcorn ceiling, shitty wooden furniture – it’s all too generic for him to start connecting the dots, ‘cause it pretty much looks like any shitty house in America. He drums his fingers along his desk and cants his head thoughtfully, “sounds like the person you’re living with is a total dickwad,” he says slowly, “but, they have a point.”

“Yeah,” Butters murmurs, scratching at his arm self-consciously, “I guess.”

Cartman squints at him, “you gonna—”

“No, Eric,” Butters interrupts him tiredly, “I can’t tell you who I’m living with. So, don’t even bother with your interrogation nonsense, mister!”

“Damn Butters, losing an eye has made you a _bitch_ ,” Cartman says, a small degree of admiration in his tone, “but I gotta say, I’m kinda flattered you reached out to me. Your asshole parents made it pretty clear we weren’t allowed to exchange friendship bracelets anymore.”

“You don’t even wear the bracelets I make for you,” Butters says sulkily.

“Because I’m not _gay_ , Butters,” Cartman sighs, shaking his head in mock-disappointment, “but I’m pretty curious as to who else you’ve—”

“I haven’t talked to anyone else.”

“Now I’m _extra_ flattered; glad you’ve finally seen the light and kept the trash out your life.”

“Eric,” Butters says coolly, his single working eye flashing with irritation and Cartman wonders if whoever is looking after Butters is out of the house, ‘cause he’s sure he’s just heard lightning crackle distantly, “I _told_ you what would happen if you called him that again.”

“Dude, are you seriously sticking up for him?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. Honestly, he’s glad they’re having this conversation with miles of distance between them, ‘cause the last time he insulted Kenny in front of Butters, _well_. The incident kinda reminded him of the time when he tortured Hussein with his V-Chip, except the second time 'round hadn’t been as cool, and he had been the one getting the shit shocked outta him.

“I ain’t sticking up for no one, I just know when to take the high ground!” Butter says, which is just such fucking bullshit.

“You broke up with him Butters, there’s no high fucking ground to take!” Cartman bites back, before he sighs and tiredly rubs a hand against his face, “Butters, just stop being a little bitch and come back so we can crush those Freedom Pricks into goddamn dust. I’ll let you team up with us, it’ll be a once in a lifetime opportunity and maybe, _maybe_ I’ll give you a discount on the joining fee,” he pauses, “like, a 5% discount. If you decide right now.”

“… Freedom Pricks?” Butters echoes, tilting his head with a slight furrow, “you mean _Freedom Pals_? They’ve reformed?”

“What, you didn’t know?” Cartman’s genuinely surprised, ‘cause he’s sure Butters had still been in South Park when they all fell out. He scoffs and rolls his eyes regardless, “it’s so fucking weak bro. You’re apparently so fucking important that you breaking up with Kenny completely wrecked Coon and Friends. Fuckers who thought Kenny made a mistake splintered off to make Freedom Pals again,” Cartman explains bitterly, ‘cause it had taken forever and a fucking day to convince those assholes to revert back to Coon and Friends after their fight in fourth grade; now all that effort’s gone to waste and he fucking _hates_ wasted effort, goddammit, “Tweek broke up with Craig, Stan’s a butt-fucking traitor, I’m stuck with fucking Kyle and Clyde as friends—”

“Tweek and Craig broke up?” Butters interjects, looking shocked and slightly wounded.

“Dude, don’t interrupt—”

“Wait, _you’re_ not a Freedom Pal? So, you—” Butters pipes up, his previous expression melting away into something more quizzical and calculating.

“Don’t interrupt asshole!” Cartman snaps before he shrugs half-heartedly, “but yeah, I’m on your side. It surprised me too, but _fuck_ Kenny, the rat’s a—”

“ _You_ ,” Butters repeats, pointing at him, “are on _my_ side.”

“Butters, I swear to god,” Cartman sighs, rubbing his temples wearily, before he continues, “I know, it’s totally fucked, right?”

“This changes everything…” Butters mutters to himself, tapping his lips with his finger.

“What?”

“Nothing Eric,” the Elementalist trills, but his tone is flat, and his smile doesn’t reach his single eye, “I sure am surprised that you all _care_ so much about me. A _real_ plot twist, huh.”

“Yeah, I guess. You, uh,” Cartman utters uncertainly, his brows knitting together with threads of concern and suspicion, “you alright there?”

“Just _peachy_ ,” Butters chirps hollowly.

“Uh huh,” Cartman hums, not buying his bullshit for a second, but whatever. Let Butters be a little bitch and keep his bitch-ass secrets to himself, “are you sure you don’t want me to fuck him up?”

“No Eric,” Butters says, before he flashes Cartman a look – his expression is shadowed, but there’s a manic spark in his eye which intrigues Cartman more than anything else, “I don’t need your help. I don’t think I’ve _ever_ needed your help.”

“Rude.”

“Besides, I already have a plan,” Butters practically purrs, canting his head as his eye glints eerily, “in fact, I’m only calling ‘cause it’s only _decent_ for a fella to let his _friends_ know when he’s cooking up somethin’ _special_ for them.”

“Okay, but are you the chef in this metaphorical kitchen? Or is it _Chaos_? And also, can you get better analogies, ‘cause that one sucks?” Cartman asks, squinting at the blond as a small flicker of fear beats in his heart.

“Now Eric, remember your manners, you don’t wanna go making me _mad_ by being rude, do ya? Besides, I _can’t_ answer your questions just yet. I mean, what’s the point in laying all my cards out? There’s no _fun_ in that. You _taught_ me that, Eric. Remember?” Butters says, smiling his quirky little smile as he leans in close to the camera. Then, without warning and without another word, he ends the call.

He’s not totally sure why, but Cartman is certain that Butters is pissed at him.

Well, _fuck_.

He tears his headset off and throws it onto his desk as he slouches into his seat; he steeples his fingers together and presses them to his lips as he considers his options. He probably ought to let Jimmy know about Butters contacting him, but then knowing him, he’s probably already been alerted the second Butters switched his computer on – fucking dick with his weak-ass app, doesn’t even tell him _shit_. God, Butters had been a closed book, just utterly unreadable and it irks him that he just can’t figure the guy out. He’s _always_ been able to read Butters, but now he’s got nothing.

Like, why would the little prick even be mad at _him_?

What the fuck did he even do? _This_ time, at least?

Does he not care that he effectively ruined Cartman’s life?

That their friends are at war?

That Cartman’s BFF necklace is basically rusting away in his bedside drawer?

Christ, what a selfish, fucking asshole.

“Goddammit, I’m actually proud of him,” the Hybrid mutters to himself, leaning back in his chair as contemplates telling everyone else about his conversation with Butters. Shit, he has to, Kyle will only figure it out somehow and be a little asshole about it. Scott will just pout about the lack of trust, Craig probably won’t give a shit but will still punch him out of principal, Jimmy will only give a shit if it affects his app, then there’s fucking _Clyde_ , oh fuck, should he tell Kenny—

“ _Cartman_!” a loud voice tears through his thoughts and has Cartman jolting in his seat, clutching at his chest as his heart fiercely races out of fright.

“Jesus, fuck,” he exclaims, turning to find the cause of his almost-death to be the culprit behind _most_ of his almost-deaths.

Fucking _Kyle_.

“I have tried to ignore whatever is brewing in your twisted little mind, but after yesterday’s fight, I just can’t let it drop! I need to know what you’re planning and you are going to tell me before I rip your tail off and shove it down your throat!” Kyle rants, stalking up to Cartman with a fire burning in his eyes.

It takes a moment for Cartman to slowly register the horrifying sight of the asshole ginger in his bedroom, but when the dots connect, he’s hit by a tidal wave of indignation.

“Dude, did my mom let you in?” he asks, affronted as his tail fluffs up.

“What, you break into _my_ house enough times, why can’t I do the same to you?” Kyle asks, folding his arms across his chest with an arched brow.

“Fair point,” Cartman nods, before he gestures to Kyle, “please continue.”

“Thank you,” Kyle says before he lifts up a fist and lands it solidly into Cartman’s arm, “tell me your goddamn plan! I don’t trust you and even when you have good intentions, you still manage to screw up on incomprehensible levels—”

“Will you calm your gender-non-specific genitals, Christ!”

“God, even your attempts at respecting my identity are fucked up! It’s fucked up that you’re trying to respect me at all!”

“Duh, there’s way worse things about you than whatever the fuck is going on down there,” Cartman waves a hand at Kyle’s groin with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose, “have you seen your hair, Kyle? Have you met your mom? Did you forget you’re—”

“Cut it out!” Kyle interjects roughly, “just tell me what you have planned and let me in on it, okay?”

Cartman grins, “I knew you couldn’t resist for long,” then he pauses before he spreads his hands out, adding with a hushed tone, “ _Dougie_.”

“Wh— what?” Kyle utters, furrowing his brows as he tilts his head; since coming out as a-gender-whatever, he’s let his hair grow longer, scooping it back into a low bun with only a few tendrils hanging in his face. It’s incredibly distracting and only serves to remind Cartman of—

“Dougie,” he repeats, nodding sagely.

“Yeah, no, I fucking heard you, fatass,” Kyle scoffs, “I just don’t get what you plan on doing with him – or to him? He’s blocked us on _everything_ , and we can’t go within ten feet of him or his house without getting pelted with balls of lava.”

“Yeah, but he’s also the only one who’s allowed to talk to Butters’ shitty parents. We just gotta find a way to compromise him and use him as a mole to give us some insight into where Butters is! Or, at the very least, to find out what the fucker is planning.”

“ _That’s_ your plan?” Kyle asks blandly.

“Yeah, the outline of one,” Cartman says, a touch defensive, his tail flicking irritably, “you in?”

“Well, _obviously_ I’m in and—” Kyle cuts himself off and frowns, “wait. What _Butters’_ is planning?”

“Oh yeah, dude totally just called me up,” Cartman explains, jabbing a thumb towards his computer, “spoiler alert: he’s pissed and out for blood.”

“But like, _Kenny’s_ blood?”

“That would be the best-case scenario.”

“And _not_ our collective blood?”

“Yeah, that’s the worse-case, but also more likely, scenario.”

There’s a beat of tense silence as Kyle digests Cartman’s words and truly, they’ve been friends long enough for Cartman to know when a bomb’s about to go off; he mentally counts down from five and—

“What the fuck, Cartman?” Kyle erupts, throwing his hands up in the air, wind blasting throughout the bedroom and disrupting everything it touches.

“You know,” Cartman narrows his eyes at the Elementalist, tucking his tail around his body protectively as his ears flatten against his head, “I don’t think I appreciate you yelling at me, Kyle!”

“I don’t think I appreciate you dragging everyone into your shit again, Cartman!”

“I don’t think I appreciate those implications, _Kyle_!”

“I don’t think I give a shit, _Cartman_!”

“Well, fuck you, _Kyle_!” Cartman spits back, pointing towards his door, “get out of my house, you little bitch, before I kick your ass!”

“Ha! You wish you could kick my ass!” Kyle spits back, turning on his heel towards the door, “and I will gladly get out of your house, you glorified trash panda!”

“Whatever, dickweed,” Cartman scoffs before he pauses and adds, “you’re still in on this plan, right?”

“Yes dude, text me when you’ve calmed the fuck down!” Kyle yells back, storming down the stairs, the wind following quickly after its master. Mistress? Gender-neutral whatever-the-fuck.

“You calm the fuck down!” he says, wincing when his front door slams shut, his mom already making excuses as to why there’s suddenly a fucking hurricane in the house. He sighs and collapses back into the chair, steepling his fingers once more as he evaluates his current situation. He’s doped up on meds like some tweaking junkie. Butters is _pissed_. Could be pissed at _him_. Could be pissed at _all_ of them. Half his friends still aren’t talking to him. His mom is still entertaining Boyfriend #12 so he’s probably fending for himself tonight. He’s stuck working with Kyle again.

Goddammit.

“This,” Cartman mutters venomously, “ _this_ is my Vietnam.”

* * *

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: chaos got in touch

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: he’s pissed

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: and he’s probably pissed at me

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: which means he’s probably pissed at you guys too

[Mosquito] sent to [Coon and Friends]: I’m gonna go with why?

[Mosquito] sent to [Coon and Friends]: What did you do dude?

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: okay, like

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: rude

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: but also fuck you

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: cause i did fuck all

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: dude is probably on his period or some shit

[The Coon] sent to [Coon and Friends]: anyways, we’re probably fucked cause he’s gonna kill us or whatever, so meeting tomorrow to discuss

[Mosquito] sent to [Coon and Friends]: So. We’re like dead, dead, right?

[Mosquito] sent to [Coon and Friends]: Cause I did not study for Monday’s history test, nor do I plan to, so this is pretty much a blessing, ngl

[The Human Kite] sent to [Coon and Friends]: IT IS NOT A FUCKIN BLESSING CLYDE!

* * *

Kenny curls up on the rooftop of _Bi the Garage_ and stares up at the starless sky – if there’s one thing SoDaSoPa offers his home, it’s more hiding places to stow away in when shit gets too intense between his parents. Karen’s with her lame-ass Vamp Kid friends, Kevin’s on a date with Shelly and so Kenny is alone once again.

Which is fine.

He’s pretty fucking used to it.

Still, he kinda wishes his parents could be sober enough for a hug, or for at least one sibling to be around to be a shoulder to cry on, ‘cause Token’s getting pissed about the cops, about _Mysterion_ being all buddy-buddy with cops.

And he’s not really sure what to do.

The only reason he and his friends haven’t been arrested yet is due to the unofficial partnership between the Freedom Pals and the South Park police – it’s a little different to the partnership The Coon used to have, considering there’s a significant lack of corruption, but. Well. The cops _are_ shitty assholes, so it’s not exactly a squeaky-clean collaboration.

Fuck.

He hates the cops, _everyone_ in South Park hates the cops, even the cops aren’t fond of other cops, but Kenny _needs_ them on his side; though no one really gives a shit about the McCormicks neglecting and shitting on their kids, he’s pretty sure the cops would still jump at the chance to rid the neighbourhood of the trash. Kevin’s tried adopting him and Karen in the past, but his lack of permanent address and his past issues with addiction have proven to be irritatingly tricky roadblocks.

Until Kevin can prove himself to the state, or at least, manages to save enough money to move out properly, Kenny and Karen are stuck with their mom and dad. It’s incredibly selfish, ‘cause he could just _let_ CPS come in and save their asses, but the probability of getting to stay together is woefully low. Kenny doesn’t _want_ Karen to be taken away from him, he can’t bear the thought of being torn away from Kevin either; like, just the _idea_ of being handed off to some other family and never seeing his friends or family again has his skin crawling. Jesus, not _everyone_ gets to be lucky like Tweek, not _everyone_ has a rich friend who can afford to take in a damaged blond kid with shitty parents.

So, Mysterion cozied up the cops, persuaded them not to worry about the white trash family on the outskirts of South Park, ‘cause he already has his eye on them, no point in wasting police time too.

Plus, the further away the cops stayed, the less likely they were to uncover his secret.

Getting exposed is shit for any superpowered being, but Kenny’s a _Netherborn_ – his kind aren’t in textbooks or written about on fan-blogs. No one knows Netherborn beings _exist_ and if anyone finds out that there’s a whole new breed? Species? _Type_ , whatever, of superbeing, then he’ll be fucked, ‘cause he doesn’t run fast or control animals, he’s not even of this world. Kenny’s pretty much a walking, talking gateway to another realm which is fucking terrifying. His heart slowly freezes in his chest, ice webbing out in his veins as fear takes over; god, he’s so fucking scared of being exposed.

And not just for his sake, but for his family too.

It’s never been proven that powers are hereditary, so most assume that they’re more of a cosmic lottery for a lucky chosen few – but scientists don’t see that way. The _government_ doesn’t see it that way.

If Kenny’s secret gets revealed, then he’ll be putting everyone he loves in danger – that’s the reason behind his partnership with the cops. It’s the whole, keep your friends close but your enemies closer, hiding in plain sight, _thing_.

“Well, fuck you bitch! See if I come home tonight!” his dad suddenly hollers, storming out of the house with rage rolling off his body in waves; Kenny peeks his head over the side of _Bi the Garage’s_ rafters and winces at the ugly snarl on his dad’s face – it gets worse when his dad catches sight of him and Kenny mourns the lost chance of hiding out of sight again, “hey son! Your mom’s a bitch!”

“Yeah, like you’re any better,” Kenny mutters sullenly.

“What was that?”

“I said _you married her_!”

“Yeah, ‘cause she’s a _spitfire_ , that’s for damn sure,” his dad says appreciatively, clearly forgetting that he’s supposed to be mad at her, “hey, you got any money on ya?”

Kenny sighs, “no dad, I ain’t got any money,” he lies, ‘cause Kevin taught him to hold onto every penny, dime and nickel he can find – if it’s not going to him or Karen, then it’s not going anywhere at all. If he gives his parents even a single dollar, he’d be setting a precedent which will only end with them invading his room and tearing it apart for the next dollar.

“Goddammit, that’s what your brother said – thought you were fancy working men, now!” his dad complains loudly, “so where’s the fucking money?”

“Up your ass,” Kenny mumbles to himself.

“What was that?”

“I said _I ain’t got paid yet_!” This is actually, _technically_ true, as Mr Kim has yet to pay Kenny his Child Labour wage for the week.

“Oh,” his dad utters with disappointment, before thrusting a finger at him, “well when you do, you let me know! I deserve a cut of that for raising your damn ass!”

“Stuart!” his mom suddenly screams, opening the front door with an irritated scowl, “are you harassing my baby for money again? You leave him alone or I’ll kick your goddamn ass!”

Kenny rolls his eyes and rests his head against the freezing metal rafters; he only has so many safe havens left and he’s pretty sure he’s just lost one. He mutters darkly to himself as he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and really, he’s not in the mood to be entertaining any more assholes right now.

“I’d like to see you try, bitch!” his dad yells back at her.

“Fuck you!” his mom retorts, “why don’t you save me the trouble and go drown yourself in whiskey! You can piss away your life whilst you piss away our money!”

Kenny snorts, feeling oddly impressed with his mom’s sass.

“Maybe I will!” his dad says, already stalking down the street, a series of fading curses and insults following after him. His mom lingers by the doorway and he watches as her face falls from anger to despondence; his heart aches, ‘cause she might be a mess, but she’s still his _mom_.

“Kenny?” she calls up softly, hugging herself tightly to protect her bare arms from the frigid air.

“Yeah mom?” he calls back down to her.

“You’re a good kid, you know that?” she says, gazing up at him with large, empty eyes. She doesn’t give him a chance to reply, she just drifts back inside and closes the door behind her. Kenny swallows around the lump in his throat and wonders what he could’ve done in a past life to deserve so much fucking shittiness to deal with in this life.

He leans back against the rafters and remembers his phone; pulling it out, he rolls his eyes as he sees Cartman’s name shining across the cracked screen. For a guy who apparently _hates_ him so much, his supposed ex-best friend really can’t stay away. It’d be _almost_ flattering if it wasn’t so fucking annoying.

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: dude

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: big fucking news

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: hey asshole, you there?

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: don’t fucking ignore me kenny

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: YOU BETTER NOT BE IGNORING ME

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: KENNY

Kenny rolls his eyes and reluctantly messages the fucker back.

[Kenny McCormick] sent to [Eric Cartman]: Thought you weren’t ever speaking to me again, like ever, fuck you Kenny, see if I come to another one of your funerals poor boy, I can afford plenty of friends, think I need you too, fuck off Kenny and never taint my perfect presence with your dirty existence ever again.

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: dude, as if you typed all that out

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: weak

[Kenny McCormick] sent to [Eric Cartman]: The fuck do you want?

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: your bitch-ass ex called me

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: he’s got plans, bro

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: of the revenge kind, like he is living his best villain life right now

Kenny blinks as his mind sluggishly registers the words on his cracked screen; Butters spoke to _Cartman_? Wendy hasn’t messaged him with any updates and the app she sent him hasn’t alerted him either, so he wonders if Cartman’s figured out where his ex-boyfriend is.

He wants to ask if he has, but Kenny knows he’ll get fuck all in return; regardless, hope and suspicion war in his heart and he has to question _why_ Cartman is bothering to give him the heads-up. The dude is nothing more but ulterior motives wrapped up in lies and insecurities, topped with too much hairspray and his mom’s perfume, with a gooey centre only available to cats and Lady Gaga.

So, to say this whole conversation is suspicious would be a _major_ understatement.

[Kenny McCormick] sent to [Eric Cartman]: What do you want?

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: why, whatever you do you mean, young Kenneth?

[Kenny McCormick] sent to [Eric Cartman]: Why are you telling me about Butters, dickhead?

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: no reason

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: can’t a guy just be super cool and nice to his ex-bff?

[Kenny McCormick] sent to [Eric Cartman]: No.

[Eric Cartman] sent to [Kenny McCormick]: you’re welcome kenny

Goddamn asshole, fuck, he’s such a goddamn _asshole_.

Yet, no matter how much he pisses Kenny off, he has to admit that it’s weirdly nice to have _one_ constant in his life; everything’s changed so much recently that having Eric Cartman treat him like shit is just a blessing really. Plus, it’s not like his phone is popping off with messages and calls lately – everyone’s kinda giving him a wide berth, bar Stan.

It sucks when even the people on ‘his’ side are too wary of him to just drop by and check to see how he’s doing. Not that he deserves it, seeing as he’s the one to fuck up, but it would help to chase away the clawing grasp of loneliness. Kenny sighs and watches his breath spiral out in wisps of smoke in the chilly air; he can’t help but remember the time when he and Kevin pretended to be dragons together during one frigid December evening. He’d been like, eight or something, unaware that their gas supply had been switched off and that the only thing keeping them alive had been sheer willpower and body heat.

It’s a dumb memory, but it still has the same effect of making him warm inside.

Kenny taps thoughtfully on his phone – he ought to text Freedom Pals and give them the update. Truthfully, he’s glad that his fellow heroes will finally have an actual goal to work towards, beyond Kenny’s reputation and everyone’s destroyed relationships. It had freaked him out when his friends ended up picking sides and it had freaked him out more when he realised that there were people on _his_ side.

Like, he knows he fucked up and whilst he and Cartman had _originally_ bickered over the use of unapproved weaponry, it had descended into this whole awful fucking nightmare which tore his friends apart. Reincarnating Freedom Pals had been Stan’s idea initially, with Timmy nominating Kenny as the leader in his absence, but. It’s just so weird.

Knowing that they’re _there_ ‘cause he mutilated Butters and yet they still thought _he_ was the wounded party; shit’s just getting worse too, especially after the fight with Coon and Friends outside the bank. It had been such a stupid idea to goad the fuckers, but just seeing Cartman’s face had ignited something ugly and petty within Kenny. Now everyone’s even more on edge – Tweek is pissed, Stan is hurting, Token’s tired and Wendy’s still on the fence.

And yet, none of them have actually messaged Kenny unless it’s to do with Freedom Pals.

He sighs and glances up at the sky; he wonders if Timmy had felt just as lonely when he had been in charge but knows he’s only kidding himself. It’s got nothing to do with leadership or hierarchies or responsibilities.

It’s just… _him_.

* * *

[Mysterion] sent to [Freedom Pals]: Chaos is planning revenge.

[Wonder Tempest] sent to [Freedom Pals]: whattTTT? Are you suRE???

[Toolshed] sent to [Freedom Pals]: oh goddammit, now what do we do?

[Doctor Timothy] sent to [Freedom Pals]: Calm down, Freedom Pals. This is not the time for panic – the Professor is not an unreasonable sort, you can easily resolve this situation without resorting to bloodshed and, well, chaos, if you pardon the pun.

[Tupperware] sent to [Freedom Pals]: I think logic left the building the moment Mysterion blinded him.

[Toolshed] sent to [Freedom Pals]: dude!!!!!

[Tupperware] sent to [Freedom Pals]: Shit, sorry.

[Mysterion] sent to [Freedom Pals]: It’s fine. Meeting tomorrow evening, usual time.

[Wonder Tempest] sent to [Freedom Pals]: i’ll bring some cocOA!!

* * *

Tweek sighs as he curls up into a tighter ball behind the counter.

The moment he had received Mysterion’s message, he had closed the coffeehouse up, locked the door and hid where no one could see him. He feels incredibly overwhelmed, what with Token’s girlfriend dealing with her dad getting arrested, his fight with Craig is still fresh in his mind and now Chaos is brewing some nefarious revenge plot?

Fuck, it’s all too much; he’s supposed to be focusing on himself and dealing with his family, but now this avalanche of utter bullshit has fallen on him and he’s not sure how to dig his way out.

He picks at the loose threads in his frayed jeans as he tries to stabilise his mind; Dr Goodall praised him for using mediation, but she also encouraged him to use breathing exercises for emergency situations, or his surroundings for a more grounding experience. Tweek tries his hand at both, breathing in deep until he tugs a thread free, then slowly exhaling as he flicks it away.

It takes a while for his pulse to stabilise, but it doesn’t really make a difference – his heart might’ve chilled out, but his mind is still spinning out. Fuck, how’s he supposed to get his shit together when everything is falling apart? His friends are still fighting, his ex refuses to accept any kind of custody agreement, the cops are corrupt, his skin crawls with the urge to use again, his parents won’t leave him alone, he’s gonna tank Monday’s history exam _and_ he has a whole fucking coffeehouse to run?

“I need a, _gah_ , break,” Tweek mutters, his body spasms reducing him to a vibrating mess.

It takes him a moment to notice that it’s not actually his body which is vibrating, but his thigh. Tweek bites his lip and prays that it isn’t his mom again… or Kenny with _more_ bad news, or Token’s parents telling him they’re kicking him out, or Dr Goodall telling him that she’s given him the wrong prescription and now he’s addicted to a whole other drug, completely ruining his life and leaving him to be hauled back to rehab where he’ll just rot away in a tiny cell with no friends, no boyfriend, no family, no fucking guinea pig—

Oh.

It’s Token. Fuck, Tweek’s finger quivers as he presses the answer button, ‘cause it could be _Token_ informing him that he’s being kicked out the house, or that he can’t do his shift that evening, oh _fuck_ , why is he even keeping this shitty coffeehouse?

“Yo buddy, I’m guessing you’re freaking out—"

“I’m selling the coffeehouse,” Tweek announces in a rushed breath, clenching his eyes as he listens to Token splutter on the other side of the phone. The Cyborg takes a moment to reply and every silent second has Tweek inching closer to the edge of hysterics.

“Uh… what?” Token finally utters, and there’s a sound in the background like a door shutting, presumably to have more privacy whilst he talks Tweek down from the ledge.

“I mean, _nngh_ , when all the legal stuff is done and I’m free?” Tweek elaborates, his mind latching onto the plan desperately; he had said it a whim, but the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense, “I’m… I’m gonna sell it! I don’t want it! I hate it, it’s too much! I’m selling it and… and maybe I’ll use the money to go to, _argh_ , college? Or I’ll turn it into a bakery! Just something… something that’s _mine_ , you know?”

“Dude,” Token says, his tone softly awed, “this is not where I expected this conversation to go but do it! It’s an awesome idea!”

“It is?” Tweek asks, sit up straight as hope blossoms in his heart. He picks another thread out of his jeans and feels himself hanging onto Token’s words, anchoring onto the encouraging tone like it’s his only connection to stability.

“Totally dude!” Token gushes eagerly, “I’ll have a look at average market prices, maybe have a guy look at the place and give us an estimate – oh _dude_ , I bet you could make bank on that place!”

“You think?”

“Tweek,” Token begins, his tone steady and considering, “with the money you make, you could set up not one bakery, but a whole _chain_! You could set up a chain _and_ go to college! Dude, you could fuck the bakery and just go to college, like Julliard or something!”

“What?” Tweek yelps, his eyes widening as he tries to imagine himself at Julliard; he can’t, not even as a visitor in a daydream, it’s just too inconceivable, “Julliard? No way man, that’s— _Julliard_? Seriously?”

“Yeah dude, you’re good with arty, drama shit and you rock in Theatre Club,” Token replies warmly.

“I don’t— it’s a shitty local group!” Tweek protests, furrowing his brows as he claws out more threads free, “we do like, _one_ play a year, and no one shows up, man! I can’t go from that to, _ah_ , _Julliard_!”

“Sure you can!” Token says, his tone softly amused, “and if you don’t, at least w— _you’ll_ be rolling in it!”

Tweek blinks and pulls the phone away to stare at it suspiciously; Token is loaded, but if there’s one thing he’s learned from being his friend, it’s that the guy enjoys being _more_ loaded, if possible.

“You really wanted to say _we_ , didn’t you?” he asks shrewdly.

“What can I say, I like making money,” Token replies predictably.

“Typical,” Tweek snorts, before he sighs despondently. Honestly, selling his coffeehouse to make money would’ve been such a great scheme for his friends to take part in. Jimmy would’ve written the advertisement, Token would’ve sorted out the finances, Clyde would’ve been the charming face of the coffeehouse to lure in potential buyers, Craig would’ve stood in the background pointing out all the flaws in the plan in order to make it better—

Tweek bites his lip as he clutches at his shirt, his heart aching at what could’ve been…

“Hey,” Token’s voice crackles through the speakers again, “you okay dude?”

Tweek wets his dry lips nervously and scratches at his bare knees, “um, Token?”

“Yeah?”

“They had a sleepover without us,” he murmurs quietly, and there’s a tiny pause in response.

“Yeah, I saw,” Token replies, sighing heavily, “they even brought out the pink jackets and mocktails – must’ve been a pretty wild bash.”

“I… do you, _ah_ , miss them?” Tweek asks, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

“They’re our best friends, dude! Of course, I miss them. More than I thought I would.”

“Maybe,” Tweek begins, before he sighs and buries a hand in his tangled hair, “maybe we should forgive them?” he closes his eyes and leans his against the wall, “ardently do today what must be done. Who knows? Tomorrow, death comes.”

“Is… is that the Buddhist version of YOLO? Did you just YOLO me?”

Tweek can’t restrain the body spasm and he feels himself snap inwardly as he retorts, “what if I die tomorrow and our friends think I died hating them? Or worse! _Nngh_ , they could die thinking _I_ hate _them_! Oh god, I don’t want them to die thinking I hate them! What if we all die thinking we all hate each other, man! _Token_!”

“Oh, so you don’t hate Craig?” Token asks, laughter rich in his voice. Tweek is somewhat appreciative that he doesn’t tell him to ‘ _calm down_ ’ or ‘ _stop freaking out_ ’ or some other condescending bullshit, but he really doesn’t appreciate being made fun of either. It’s not a matter of pride, so much as it’s a matter of not letting anyone else just walk all over him again, like his dad.

Which is why he probably ends up saying, “yes!” his tone defensive and sharp, “yes, I do!”

“Man, I think you just gave me whiplash.”

“I want to have a sleepover,” Tweek declares, his mind racing as he tries to think of ways to make himself feel better, but to also stick it to the assholes who reduced him to this pathetic, quivering mess hiding behind a dumb coffeehouse counter.

“I feel like we’re having three different conversations,” Token says wearily, “at the same time.”

“We’re gonna dress up! And have fun!” Tweek declares, a smile stretching across his lips as he throws himself into his idea, “and post photos all over Coonstagram with taglines like, #brosforlife and #destroyfuckbois!” He takes his phone away from his ear and toggles the speakerphone, before opening up Coonstagram to see what their ex-friends had written in _their_ sleepover captions.

“Did you take your meds today?”

“Yes, _nngh_ , Token!” Tweek rolls his eyes, twitching irritably, flicking through his feed, “I took my fucking meds, now we’re gonna have a sleepover! It’s gonna be great! It’ll be all over Coonstagram! And! It’ll show those assholes how we don’t need them in our lives anymore!”

“Technically we have a sleepover every night. Anyway, what happened to missing them?” Token queries.

“I changed my mind!” Tweek announces when his eyes fall upon an update to Craig’s Coonstagram page.

“What would Buddha say?” Token asks wryly. Tweek grits his teeth he takes in Craig’s photo – it features a pile of handwritten, English midterm notes scattered on the ground with Stripe nestled amidst them like it’s her nest. The caption reads: _wow, isn’t there anyone who wants me to pass this shit?_ Tweek scowls and wonders why he hasn’t blocked the bastard again – his finger hovers over the option, but _fuck_ , he just can’t do it.

“Urgh!” he growls, “he’d say that Craig’s a shitty jerk who doesn’t deserve! The guinea pig! _I gave to him_!”

“Oh shit, is he vague-posting about you again, is that why you’re so mad?” Token asks and Tweek winces as he closes Coonstagram down and takes his friend off of speakerphone, pressing his device tight against his ear.

“ _Nngh_ , no! Maybe! I don’t know! I hate him!”

There’s a tiny beat of silence before Token releases a sigh heavy enough, it crackles through the speakers of Tweek’s phone.

“Okay,” he says, his tone doggedly determined as he clearly drops the matter, “I’ll get pizza, chips and dips, maybe those sour candies you like so much? Break into my dad’s wine collection and—”

“I can’t drink!” Tweek interjects quickly, “not on my meds!”

“—and strategically place the bottles into the background of our photos?” Token finishes knowingly, “if you want, I can dig out the disco ball – don’t think we’ve used it since Clyde’s sweet sixteen, but it should still work. And like, I don’t know, we could marathon Steven Universe? Or that Aggretsuko show you like so much?”

Tweek sighs, feeling every drop of stress evaporate within his body.

“Are you sure you don’t like boys?” he teases gently.

“Tweek, my man, I wasn’t sure I even liked _girls_ until Nichole came along,” Token replies wryly, “besides, bro-code dictates that trying to make a move on another bro’s man, ex or otherwise, is a one-way journey straight to the chop-shop.”

“I highly doubt he’d send you to _the chop-shop_ , Token.”

“Oh yeah?” Token snorts knowingly, “and what if I made a move on Craig?”

Tweek glares at the phone and tries to ignore the crackle of lightning which dances across his body.

“Tweek?”

His scowl deepens as he tries hard to quell the mental images floating to the forefront of his mind; tiny strikes of purple lightning jump around his body and honestly, he’s just glad his dad passed on installing security cameras for this place.

“Dude, stop sulking, it was just a joke.”

Tweek rolls his eyes and mutters, “I’d probably give you a _two_ -minute head start, at least.”

“Hey, you can do a lot in two minutes,” Token notes, which makes Tweek laugh as he flicks away the lightning.

“Is that what you tell Nichole?” he teases.

“Dude!” Token exclaims, but it’s ruined by his own peals of laughter, “do you want the sour candies or not?”

“You promise to get the organic, chemical-free kind?”

“Duh,” Token answers and Tweek can just see him rolling his eyes, “now get your ass off the floor, shut the coffeehouse down properly and come over. Then, we can start making plans on selling that place and making some sweet, sweet money.”

“You really don’t _need_ any more sweet, sweet money.”

“Tweek, bro, dude, man,” Token says, clucking his tongue in disappointment, “you can _never_ have enough sweet, sweet money.”

* * *

“Hey,” Tricia says, looking up from where she’s painting Craig’s nails a frosty blue; he hadn’t been allowed to pick the colour, nor had his input accepted when she began adding glittery silver snowflakes, “will you ever stop being dumb and just talk to Tweek?”

“I don’t know,” Craig says, inspecting her work; fuck, he’d be mad at the design if he wasn’t so awed by her skill. Tricia isn’t exactly a graceful creature, but _damn_ , does she have a steady hand, “you ever gonna stop being dumb, period?”

“See, this is why I don’t let you join in on Self-Love Saturdays—”

“It’s Wednesday?”

“—now shut up and answer the question,” Tricia frowns, as she continues to carefully paint his nails; her own are painted in a mossy green shade, lumpy and uneven, ‘cause Craig has zero skill in painting anything, “or I’m just gonna leave you to be that dickhead who walks around with only one dolled-up hand.”

“I could just paint the other hand myself?” he says, arching a brow, but Tricia simply throws him a dry look and scoffs derisively.

“With _what_ nail varnish and _what_ skill?” she says, pointedly wiggling her fingers at him.

Craig narrows his eyes at her, “I’m gonna befriend Kenny again just so I can ask him to swap sisters with me.”

“I would crush his spirit with my words alone,” Tricia replies confidently, “and you wouldn’t last a day with Karen.”

“I like Karen,” Craig protests.

“Yeah, _normal_ Karen is cool. She’s Vamp Kid Karen now, who likes Hot Topic and listening to Evanescence and pretending that life sucks ‘cause she can’t sleep in a coffin at night,” Tricia explains with a smirk, her eyes gleaming as Craig tries to imagine life with a Vamp Kid in the house.

He shudders, “oh _god_.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“And you’re still dating her?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Karen is Karen, no matter what phase she’s in,” Tricia shrugs, her smile growing warm as her eyes glaze over for a second; then she shrugs again and starts painting the nails on his other hand, “besides, her wardrobe is totally cool now, and I like her purple highlights. Hey, do you think mom will let me dye my hair?”

“Fuck no.”

“Will you dye it anyway? I’m thinking purple so we match.”

“You know you’re practically ginger, right?” Craig says, eyeing Tricia’s ponytail with a critical look.

“I’m strawberry-blonde, asshole,” Tricia corrects him testily, tightening her grip on him until her nails bite into his soft skin. He winces and bares his teeth at her, but he doesn’t dare move in case she makes a mess.

“Whatever, it’ll still clash,” he bites out, inwardly relieved when she releases her grip; he glares at her hair and tries to imagine a colour which would actually suit her, “try a pastel pink instead, or a rose gold balayage.”

“I’m sorry, what the fuck?” Tricia asks flatly, “Craig, are you in there? Blink twice if you’ve just been possessed by a metrosexual poltergeist!”

“Listen Tricia, unlike Karen, my phases tend to last,” Craig shrugs, thinking back to the pink jacket and lilac boa in his closet; the jacket no longer fits, but he still feels pretty empowered when he drapes that feather boa across his shoulders. He actually kinda enjoyed reliving his metrosexual days with his friends the other night; Clyde especially thrived in dressing up in cute clothes and then showing them off to Bebe on Snapchat. Fuck, it must be nice having such a cute relationship and what the fuck, is he _really_ getting jealous of _Clyde_ right now? “they’re also pretty educational, too. I’m doing you a favour.”

Fuck, he’s actually getting jealous of Clyde.

“Bullshit.”

Man, _fuck_ Clyde.

“Rose gold balayage,” Craig repeats, inspecting his right hand and deeming the nails dry enough, “you can thank me later.”

“God, please go back to being a nerd.”

“I can be more than one thing, don’t put me in a box,” Craig snorts as he tugs out his phone to tell Clyde how much he hates him; instead, he finds a series of notifications from Coonstagram. He puts aside his bitterness for now and opens up the app, his eyes flying across the screen as he takes in the messages before him, “fucking _Christ_.”

“What?” Tricia asks before she kicks him under the table, “also, don’t think I haven’t noticed your complete evasion of my fucking question.”

“Butters is pissed off and planning shit,” Craig reports, flicking through the messages with a frown; they quickly descend into Kyle and Clyde yelling at each other, but the fact of the matter is that Butters has spoken to Cartman and he’s still left Craig on read.

“I thought you picked his side, so what’s the problem?”

“Cartman says he’s pissed at _us_ ,” Craig says, which he doesn’t _understand_. He’d message Butters to find out more, but again: the bitch left him _on_ _fucking read_.

“What the fuck, why?”

“Like I know what goes through Butters’ fucking head,” Craig mutters, putting his phone away. He wonders if Cartman will even let him in the base without a costume on; he has an appointment with Bebe in the morning, but he highly doubts she’ll get an outfit done in time.

She’s good, but not _that_ good.

“Last time I checked,” Tricia grins meanly, “it was a shuriken.”

“I’d be so mad at you if that hadn’t been such a sick and valid burn.”

“Thanks,” she says, her smile softening slightly. She glances down at his hand and sighs, her brows furrowing together as she stencils out another snowflake on his left forefinger, “hey Craig? Like, you should be careful and shit. I know I make fun of you for being a dumb hero but like. Don’t die, okay? It would totally suck having to deal with dad and mom alone, okay?”

“I’m not gonna die, Tricia,” he says, absently wondering if she worries about him often. He knows she’s a little jealous of him manifesting his powers, but she helps to hide that shit from his parents ‘cause he’s not sure how they would react. Not everyone is blessed with open-minded family members like Token or Cartman – like, Thomas Tucker loves _gay_ Craig, but _gay_ and _powered_ Craig might be pushing it.

Tricia shrugs half-heartedly, “it would also suck for _them_ ,” she adds impishly, “seeing as they busted their asses adopting you outta Peru, spending all that time and money, only for you to up and die. Like, what a shitty investment, y’know?”

“You’re such a bitch.”

“I’d say I get it from you, but there’s literally nothing I could possibly get from you, so—” she muses, a tad bitter and Craig kinda knows why. It’s rare for Tricia to express an earnest need for Craig to be her biological brother, but it still happens and normally it’s for one reason alone.

“No,” he interrupts quickly, “you definitely get it from me.”

“Yeah?” Tricia asks, looking sweetly hopeful. Damn, Tricia really, _really_ wants to have her own powers and he knows that she talks to Karen constantly about their alter egos, their conversations leading him to believe that they view them as more than just imaginary characters. Ruby is a fire Elementalist, but lately, she’s been drifting towards Psychic so she can freeze time, allowing her that ability to sleep in longer. Craig doesn’t have the heart to tell Tricia how hard life would be should she actually turn out to be either one or how powers aren’t actually inheritable traits, so he lets her have her dream for now.

He also has the feeling that it will only hurt Tricia, knowing she’ll never get to protect the ones she loves like Craig can.

“Yeah,” he confirms quietly.

“I suppose there could’ve been worse things to get from you – like your boring personality or your shitty laugh. Or the fact that you like dick,” Tricia snorts, kicking him under the table again.

“I take it back, let me live my life as a dork with only one dolled-up hand.”

“You lose your sense of vision or something?” Tricia asks dryly, pointedly lifting up the white polish she’s using the decorate his blue nails, “I’m literally nearly finished.”

“Oh,” Craig utters, before he frowns at the pattern again, “does it have to be snowflakes, though?” he asks, lifting up his hand to inspect the glittery flurries; damn, she could make a living outta this shit.

“I wanted to appeal to your _delicate_ sensibilities,” Tricia teases, flashing him a mischievous look, “as well as your pining heart.”

“Bitch.”

“Deal with it,” she bites back, but her voice lacks the heat of true irritation, “you ruined my chances of becoming an auntie!”

“You know, I could always hook up with someone else,” Craig remarks, ‘cause he’s only seventeen and chances are, he will definitely find another guy; he’ll probably have to leave South Park and the entire state of Colorado as a whole to find someone new, but it _could_ happen.

“No Craig,” Tricia says sagely, her eyes gleaming with a wisdom beyond her years, “you really won’t.”

Damn – what a _bitch_.


End file.
